Color
by ClassyGirlsWearPearls
Summary: Set in an alternate universe where people see in black and white until they meet their soul mate, which gives the human eye the ability to process colors. Color blindness is a great tragedy because even if they meet their soul mate, they will still only be able to see in black and white. Cue Sherlock and John, who always seem to attract whatever universe they're written in.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Since I ran out of characters in the summary, the pairings in this story will be the following:**

**Sherlock/John, John/Major Sholto, Sherlock/Victor Trevor, and Mycroft/Lestrade.**

The problem with being color blind was that you didn't know that you were color blind until you met your soul mate. That was what his professor had said when they were learning about the optic nerve. He had said it so sadly that a few people in the class who had somehow maintained their childlike wonder when it came to love and soul mates began to cry. One girl had sobbed hysterically to the point where they had to stop class so she could be given some space. She hiccupped that not being able to see when you met your soul mate was one thing, but it must be worse being the half of the pair who could see because they would have to convince the other one that they really did belong together.

John had no romantic ideas about love or soul mates. He knew that they existed, but he also knew from watching his sister as well as one of his uncles that even though someone may have found their soul mate, things were not always coming up roses. He silently hoped that his world remained black and white because that way he wouldn't have to deal with the heartache of things going back to the way they were when his soul mate died.

People were born with the ability to see all colors on the spectrum of light, but they could only process what they were seeing in black and white. Colors were reserved for when people had met their soul mate. Once that special person was in their life, a person was able to access and process all colors. While their soul mate was alive, one could continue to see all colors. When one of the pair died, the remaining half would revert to their original state of only being able to see black and white. Some soldiered on after their soul mate died, but many lost the ability to care for themselves after the death of their other half. Nursing homes for people who had reverted back to seeing black and white were bleak places that were filled with people of all ages with sad eyes and an aura of defeat about them. John's gran had gone to one, and the cloud of sadness that hung around the building made him want to curl around his grandmother and find a way to force her to see color again.

Though soul mates were supposed to be completely compatible, there were some matches that made no sense, and unfortunately that seemed to run in families. Mr. and Dr. Watson the elder were a happy couple and fit the description on the tin. Most of John's family was filled with happy couples who lived comfortable lives with their soul mates. What worried him was the close proximity of people who had awful relationships with their soul mates. His father's parents despised each other. His mother's youngest brother had abused his wife to the point where he was sent to prison for assaulting her. The only reason she had survived when her world went back to black and white was because of a man she had met in a support group for people who had been abused by their soul mates and had severed their legal connection with their other half. His sister was an awful partner, but Clara was too idealistic for her own good. She thought she could fix Harry because she was her soul mate.

John saw these disastrous relationships and decided that finding his soul mate was too much trouble. He threw himself into school, where he received unnaturally high grades. He then launched himself into medical school, where he was in the top ten percent of his class. From there, in order to avoid the very real possibility of finding a nice, sweet girl to settle down with, John Watson joined the Army. He mucked around a lot and earned himself some funny and some very unsavory nicknames because of his sexual prowess, but John was careful with those who he fooled around with. He would later look back on his techniques for pulling women with some shame, but he usually chose people who were significantly less intelligent than he was. If there was something that was a near constant factor among soul mates, it was that they were generally about as smart as the other one. John felt safe surrounding himself with women who didn't know the barrel end of a gun from the back of one. That way he could have a good fuck with whoever was around but didn't have to worry about the color.

Then he met James Sholto.

There was something about his commander that made John pause. He had never looked at another man with that sort of interest before then. He had gotten off with a few mates when he was a teenager and hormones demanded that people jerk off at the most inconvenient of times, but those had been strictly testosterone-driven. There hadn't been any sort of sexual attraction between them other than the fact that the other person was an actual body to rub off against. There was something different about Sholto. Maybe it was the fact that John had always been attracted to authority (hell, he had joined the Army), or maybe it was the fact that they were in the desert and there were no women around him that wouldn't cause him to have a reprimand if they were caught. Whatever the reason was, John Watson, who had developed quite the reputation with ladies on several continents, found himself choking back the name of his superior whenever he was able to sneak a wank.

He knew that they weren't soul mates because nothing had changed with his sight, and he knew nothing had changed with Sholto's because John was the one who had given the man his latest physical and one of the routine questions on any medical exam was if the person saw in black and white or in color. With that worry out of the way, John began to have a small sexuality crisis, which is not the best thing to have in the middle of Afghanistan. He was a very open-minded man, but he had always been straight as an arrow, with the exception of that little kink where he would have adolescent wanks with friends. These were easy to put down to testosterone, so he didn't have a problem with that part of his sexual past. Now, testosterone may be playing a factor, but to be perfectly honest John didn't know much about the man other than his medical history and a bit about his professional life. Sholto was a closed book, and maybe that was what made John want him, but the fact of the matter was that John wanted a man and that was something that was very confusing for him.

He decided to try to get the closed-off officer better. Perhaps if he spoke with him, John would realize that this little infatuation was nothing more than his hormones rebelling because there had been no warm, wet, glorious tightness around his cock in several months. Determined to find an excuse to speak with his superior about something not related to the war, John kept his eyes open and his ears alert for reasons for him to speak with Sholto. It took him two weeks, but finally John decided to flip open the man's medical file and it was there that he found his answer. Of course Sholto needed to be regularly screened for scoliosis because he had a mild case. If anything changed, there would need to be changes made so the man would be able to perform his job. That was how John Watson lured his commanding officer into his office every week for a chance to run a hand up the man's back, then he could keep him there with the promise of a cup of tea and company.

It turned out that John and Sholto were rather dissimilar. John was amicable and well-liked, whereas Sholto was commanding in a way that didn't require many words. He was closed off from others for some reason that John couldn't understand, but he knew the way to get the man talking was to bring up cricket. When he was at home, John would switch on a cricket match when he needed to go to sleep, but his father was enough of a fan that he knew the sport fairly well. All he needed to do was research players and how different teams were doing that season.

The turning point in their friendship was when Sholto asked John to his quarters to watch a match one night when they both happened to be off duty. John had accepted and was determined to stay awake through the whole match, but he failed miserably at that and ended up falling asleep on Sholto's shoulder. He woke up when a hand pressed onto his shoulder and gently shook him, and he groaned.

"Must have been more tired than I thought I was," he lied, his voice gravelly.

Sholto smiled, his face still close. "Neither of these were your team. You're perfectly within your rights to doze off during a match that isn't for your own squad."

"Still, I haven't had a chance to watch a match in ages." This was not a lie. The last time John had watched cricket was at home with his father while he was on leave. He had ended up curled up on the couch with his father's hand in his hair. It had reminded him of when he was a kid and the memory left him warm inside.

"We shall have to find another time to watch, then," Sholto breathed, leaning imperceptibly closer to John's face. John matched the movement, and before he knew it, they were breathing into each other's space with their noses brushing. "Is this something you want, Watson?" Sholto asked, his voice unsteady for the first time since John had met him.

"Oh, God yes," John replied shakily. One of them closed the gap between their mouths, and John was suddenly being kissed within an inch of his life. John swung his leg over Sholto's lap and straddled him, knocking their arousals together. They kissed hard enough to bruise, and John was about to suggest that they move somewhere more comfortable when Sholto, who was considerably taller, stood up and carried John over to his cot without ever breaking contact. They plucked at clothes and kissed until they were gasping and naked against each other.

"Enough," John gasped, pulling away. He didn't give Sholto time to react to the slight rejection because he quickly shimmied down so his head was level with the Major's hips. He hadn't done this since he was sixteen, when he and another perpetually horny mate had choked on each other's cocks for a few minutes, but he figured that it had been done enough to him that he could figure it out. Taking a deep breath, John bent down and took a little over an inch of Sholto's cock into his mouth. It was awkward and he choked more than he wanted to admit, but it only took a few minutes for Sholto to scrabble at his shoulder and gasp, "_Watson_," before John pulled off and finished off his commander with his hand.

As Sholto lay there panting, John reached over for a tissue and wiped off both his hand and Sholto. He then crept up the bed and curled up against his commander. He was hard enough to crack concrete, but it could wait.

It took Sholto a few moments to come back to himself, but when he did, he turned to John and said, "I'm so sorry, Watson. I've been so caught up that I forgot about you."

John waved his hand and gave a half shrug with the shoulder he wasn't leaning on. "Are you alright? You were gone for a little while."

"Yes," Sholto replied tersely. "Yes, I am. I haven't been with anyone for quite a while, so coming off and having you still in my bed is a bit of a shock."

"I'm not the type to suck and run," John replied with a wink. Sholto gave a small smile.

"Indeed. May I?" Sholto asked, gesturing down at John's penis. John gave an enthusiastic nod and rolled onto his back as Sholto crawled backwards down the bed so he was at eye level with John's dick.

John was feeling overly scrutinized when the tip of Sholto's tongue tapped John's frenulum and then traced the vein on the bottom down to his balls. John expected Sholto to move back in the direction that he had come from, but instead he placed two open mouthed kisses onto each testicle, which made John squirm in pleasure. He gave a short series of gasps of pleasure, and Sholto responded by lifting both of John's legs over his shoulders and opening his mouth as wide as he could and putting both balls into his mouth and rolling them around. John was almost convinced that he could come just like that, but suddenly the heat was gone and John groaned. He hoped that he hadn't gotten too excited and had scared off the quieter man, but he was again surprised by the trail of breath down his perineum that blew in short bursts over his anus. The tongue that darted out and licked him was completely unexpected, and John had to stuff a fist in his mouth to keep from howling out loud and alerting people around them to their activity. Sholto kept licking and teasing until John began to squirm. He popped up so John could see him again and swallowed his cock. It took only a minute or so of bobbing and cupping his balls before John went rigid and came.

John's brain was firing in ways that in no way helpful. Between having an orgasm with someone else and having that someone else be another man was overwhelming. He stared at the ceiling and tried to control his breathing. Sholto was saying something about having wanted this to happen for a long time and how if John only wanted it to be casual he could do that. He was well-versed with the battlefield flings that could happen when two people were lonely and a little unsteady in their surroundings. John must have been silent for too long after Sholto stopped talking because he called John's name gently.

John snapped up, nearly clipping Sholto's chin with his shoulder. "I have to go," he panted. He jumped out of the bed and began to throw his clothes back on so he could leave as quickly as possible. "I have to – I just. Sorry. Sorry about all of this," he said with a vague gesticulation of his hand as he pulled his boots back on. He registered the look of shock on Sholto's face and cringed. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done this." Before he could be convinced otherwise, he sprinted out the door and across the compound to his office. As he ran, the thought that he was making a mistake flitted through his mind, but with a cringe he realized he couldn't go back.

Apparently he was the type to suck and run.

**A/N: Hello all! I've written something new! I saw a post on Tumblr about this a while back and started writing this based on that. I plan to update daily. As always, feedback is lovely and greatly appreciated! xoxoxo**

**As always: I own none of the characters in this story, and I apologize to those who are responsible for them for playing with their things.**


	2. Chapter 2

"Honestly, Sherlock, this is becoming ridiculous. You're upsetting Mummy and Father," Mycroft sighed, staring at a spot of peeling paint in Sherlock's dingy flat.

"Fuck _off_, Mycroft," a dirty lump of flesh and blankets moaned from its spot on the couch.

"All I'm saying, Sherlock, is that you're being incredibly selfish. Father has half a mind to cut you off from your trust fund until you get yourself together."

"Neither of them would cut me off. Their bleeding hearts would take over," Sherlock grumbled, still not looking up at his brother.

"Perhaps not, but they are perfectly willing to allow me to control your expenses until you enter a rehabilitation facility and successfully complete a program there."

Sherlock could hear the disgusting sneer in his older brother's voice and refused to look up at him. "I could get what I need another way, Mycroft."

"Oh yes, you would make the ideal prostitute, wouldn't you little brother? A virgin junkie, just what the illegal sex worker market ordered." Mycroft had chosen his words wisely, and Sherlock bristled under his blankets. He hoped that he hadn't actually stiffened and his brother couldn't see how much the words affected him. He heard Mycroft moving towards him and felt his brother gingerly sit on the edge of the couch next to him.

"Sherlock, what Victor did to you was wrong. You didn't deserve that heartache that he caused or the emotional torment that he put you through. It happened and I'm sorry that it did. That doesn't mean that you should give up and succumb to an addiction. If anything, you should use the pain as a motivator to do better."

Sherlock was glad his face was hidden by a blanket so his brother couldn't actually see the tears that prickled at his eyes. "Yes, thank you for the pep talk, Mycroft. It was rather moving. Now if you'll kindly bugger off, I think there's a bakery down the street that has pastries set aside for you." Sherlock was pleased to feel his brother stiffen, knowing that he had hit a weak spot.

"Very well, brother mine," Mycroft said placidly, standing. "Please consider what I told you. The rest of us will not hesitate to take whatever actions are necessary in order to see you recover."

Sherlock waited until he heard the front door of the disgusting building on Montague Street shut before he threw off his blankets and marched towards his stash. Mycroft had, thankfully, left it untouched, but he had placed a supply of clean, packaged needles next to it. The note read, _If you insist on destroying your health and your brain with cocaine, please be intelligent about it_. He snarled, annoyed by his brother's constant meddling, but unwrapped one of the new needles and prepared another dose of cocaine to be injected into his body.

_Victor_. Sherlock hated that name and everything that it was significant of. If he could go through the rest of his life without hearing it again, he would be more than happy. He would be happy, high, black and white, and would have no desire to see color.

Sherlock had watched his parents and their sickeningly sweet marriage all through his childhood and had been granted unrealistic ideas about life with one's soul mate. Their parents didn't delude them into thinking it would be an easy task to find their soul mate, but they inadvertently set unrealistic expectations about how wonderful life would be when Mycroft and Sherlock found their soul mates. Granted, Sherlock hadn't actually found his soul mate. He had just been convinced that he had.

During his final year at university, Sherlock had met a man who worked in a shop nearby the campus. The man's dog had bitten him, and Sherlock had hobbled back to the man's flat so he could clean the injury and they could exchange information in case the dog was infected with something. As they cleaned the wound together, the man (Victor, Sherlock had learned) kept staring at Sherlock as if he was seeing the world for the first time. He kept cocking his head and staring at strange places.

"So _this_ is what they mean by red," he had breathed, in awe.

Sherlock froze. "What do you mean?"

Victor looked right into his eyes. "Your eyes are so lovely. I didn't think color could be so lovely, but I've never felt like this about anything I've ever seen before."

"Victor, _what are you saying_?" Sherlock demanded, puzzled.

"Can't you see it? The change, didn't you see it?" Victor asked frantically.

"Obviously not," he said, nervous.

"I'm seeing something other than what I've seen my whole life. I'm seeing _color_, Sherlock. Color!" Victor's face dropped. "Sherlock, I could see color from the moment I met you. I think this means that you must be color blind. We're soul mates."

"You're a liar," Sherlock snarled, but it lacked the usual conviction he had when he was insulting someone. A soul mate. This wasn't who he had envisioned his soul mate being. Gender wasn't an issue, but Victor didn't seem right. There was something off. Still, the idea of finding the person who he was supposed to be perfectly compatible with, and especially finding that person before Mycroft did, was a glorious thought.

"Why would I lie about this?" Victor asked, aghast.

"Which one of them do you know?" Sherlock asked, plowing on. "Who is it? Sebastian? Peter? Thaddeus? Which one of them put you up to this? Make the freak think that he's found his soul mate but he's color blind, that's a good one. Tell them to cut it out, and you stay the fuck away from me, Victor Trevor." On unsteady feet, Sherlock stalked away from the lee of the tub he was sitting on.

Victor caught him at the door by the arm. Sherlock tried to shake him off, but he was unsuccessful. "I can't let you go, Sherlock Holmes. I've been looking for this for my whole life, and now that I've found you, I can't just let you walk away because of some genetic flaw that leaves you unable to see color."

"Find someone else to pull your cruel jokes on," Sherlock snapped. "Don't find me. Your dog is most likely not diseased."

He had hoped that would be the last he saw of Victor Trevor, but unfortunately, the man was persistent. He had Sherlock's address, and at least three times a week he would wait outside the building, waiting for Sherlock to leave and go to class or a lab. The man was insatiable. Occasionally he would show up with flowers or some other token of his affection that Sherlock was supposed to accept like some swooning regency era heroine. He learned that actually engaging Victor was a bad idea, because the man took it as an open invitation to speak until Sherlock entered his classroom. Usually he would just stalk past him and avoid eye contact as much as he could.

Victor didn't know that this was niggling at Sherlock constantly. Despite the hard exterior he was showing to Victor, he had apparently met his soul mate and had no way to confirm whether or not they had actually met. He had desperately wanted to see color ever since he could understand the concept. Sherlock was a man of science, and seeing things from a different perspective was a crucial part of who he was and how he had built his understand of the world. Adding the dimension of color would change his life in indescribable ways. It bothered him that there was no way for him to verify Victor's statement that they were soul mates.

After nearly two months of Victor bothering him, the man looked increasingly sad about the fact that Sherlock was not responding to his advances. His determination to convince Sherlock that they were meant to be together made Sherlock's throat tight, and he spent several days formulating a way to figure out whether or not Victor was lying.

On a grey Tuesday morning, Sherlock walked out to see Victor in his usual spot looking dejected. He perked up as Sherlock walked past him, and then looked as if he had been hit on the back of his head when Sherlock sat next to him.

"You have reason to believe that we are soul mates, but I have no way to confirm this," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "You may have definite proof that we are meant for each other, but have built my life around science and finding proof for every facet of my life. It is very difficult for me to figure out whether or not something is true until I see proof that can lead me to no other conclusions. I propose that we go through a formal dating process so I can learn whether or not this is meant to work out."

Victor's eyes were bright with happiness. "Anything, Sherlock. Anything to prove to you that there is no one else you or I are supposed to be with."

"We will have to set some ground rules," Sherlock stated. "As of right now, I feel no physical attraction towards you. That isn't meant to offend you," he added quickly when Victor's face fell. "I don't even know if I am capable of being physically attracted to anyone. As of now, I have no emotional attraction to you either, and I would like to determine whether or not we are emotionally compatible with each other before I take that next step. I am not comfortable with displays of physical affection at this time. I don't want you to hold my hand. I have never kissed anyone and have no desire to kiss you at this time. Perhaps there will be a time where I'm comfortable with that, and perhaps even later than that there will be a time where I am comfortable having sex with you. I can't guarantee that any of this will happen, so if you're being put up to this by someone who wants to make my life hell, now would be the time to bow out. This could be a long process."

Victor looked as if he was going to reach for Sherlock's hand, but he thought better of it. "I'm equal to the task, Sherlock Holmes. I hope that soon you'll feel the way I feel when I see you."

Sherlock swallowed. Normal people like Victor weren't supposed to say things like that to people like Sherlock. He stuck out his hand for a handshake, as if they were agreeing on some sort of contract. With that brush of Victor's palm against his, Sherlock felt a small jolt.

_So it begins_, he thought.


	3. Chapter 3

John worked furiously, as if he would die if he stopped moving. _Like a shark_, he thought grimly. He knew that the people around him knew something was off, but he wouldn't let on. No one could know what he did. It wasn't necessarily shame over the fact that he had stuck his commander's cock in his mouth and had loved it. Well, that wasn't the _primary _reason that no one could ever know what he did. It was more the fact that he had done with a superior that could get him in trouble. He knew that there were plenty of men at the camp who would lend each other a hand when they needed it. It was something that no one talked about and no one judged because it was so common. If he was completely honest with himself, John was a little ashamed of the fact that he had had sexual contact with another man. It completely destroyed everything that he thought he was.

He felt like such a hypocrite whenever he felt shame over the fact that he and Sholto had traded blow jobs. He had been so accepting of Harry, who had known from a young age that another woman would be her soul mate. There was nothing wrong with it. That's what he needed to keep telling himself. Maybe eventually it would get through his head.

One of his fellow surgeons worked up the courage to ask him what was bothering him after four straight days of John working as if the world was going to end.

"Just my sister," he had mumbled. It was a known fact that John's sister was a mess and had been for years. John avoided alcohol like the plague. He knew the affects that alcohol could have on a traumatized brain, and he didn't want to risk sinking into the pit of blackness that his sister was so stuck in. Others respected his decision to abstain from drinking alcohol, and some eagerly gulped down any share of booze that was his.

Dominguez, an American attached to a unit from somewhere in Texas and the surgeon who asked him what had been happening, nodded in understanding and clapped him on the shoulder. "If you need an ear, I'm here Watson."

"Cheers, mate," John had grumbled. He had turned back to his desk to keep working on some treatment plans, but he quickly swiveled around and called out, "Hey, do you mind checking Sholto's back for me? I'm swamped here, and I've ordered weekly checks of his spine to make sure nothing is getting worse there. He's due for one today."

"I'll send for him now," Dominguez nodded, turning and walking out of the small office.

John was mildly concerned that Sholto would come into his office and confront him about what had happened, but less than a minute after he had refocused on the papers in front of him he was ordered to scrub up to assess the injuries sustained by a kid who had been caught by an IED. Four hours, two flatlines, and one removal of a left leg later, John checked on his patients who were in recovery and then hauled himself back to his office so he could decompress and make a few notes of both the surgery and the patients he had just seen.

Dominguez was sitting in John's desk chair with his feet propped up on the desk. "Funny think about scoliosis that's barely there," Dominguez said calmly. "It generally doesn't change at all, if the proper exercises are done to strengthen the back. Sholto is a military man through and through. Do you really not trust him to do what one of the doctor's in his command prescribes?"

John shut and locked his door, then slumped against it. "What do you want, Dominguez?"

"I want to know what happened between the two of you that made you so scared to confront the man. I've watched you run into the line of fire to rescue injured men. Why are you scared of the Major?" John just shook his head, unable to speak. "You know he was so disappointed that it wasn't you? Before he registered who was walking into the room, he looked as if he was going to say something that he had been working up the courage to say, which is also strange. The man is career military. Why would he be afraid to address one of the officers in his command?"

"Please," John rasped, gripping his doorknob in order to make a quick getaway. "I can't tell you. I can't talk about it."

"Bullshit," Dominguez said. "I know you, Watson. I know how shorter men work." He gestured to himself. Dominguez stood about two inches shorter than John. "You need to exude masculinity so women will take you seriously. You have quite the reputation with your unit when it comes to your ability to pull women. If something was threatening that, you would do whatever you could to make sure that your sexual orientation wasn't questioned. Machismo, some may say."

"I don't like that you're implying that I'm homophobic," John growled, his brow drawn tight.

"Never said that," Dominguez said placidly. "I know about your sister. Hell, if you were homophobic I wouldn't feel safe in the same room with you. You could be racist as well. Those things go pretty much hand in hand where I'm from. But Watson, if something happened between you and Sholto, or if you're feeling like something may happen and that makes you uncomfortable because you're having some sort of sexuality crisis, that's fine. All I'll say is that people fall for the people who they're going to fall for, and there's nothing that you can do about that. Buck up, Watson. Go and either tell him he's making you uncomfortable, or do whatever y'all did before that fucked things up so royally."

John was still frozen at the door. Dominguez got out of his chair and walked towards the door. "I'm leaving. Think about that. Stop driving yourself into the ground. There are plenty of other things in this godforsaken country that can drive you mad. Don't make something so trivial one of them." He gently tapped John's shoulder to get him to move, then walked out the door, leaving John alone with his thoughts and the fact the American soldier had just read what he had done through his actions as well as the Major's and then had given him a pep talk about what he should do.

Before his brain registered what his body was doing, he had wrenched open the door and was sprinting down the corridor past Dominguez, out of the medical tent, and across the medical camp until he was at Sholto's quarters. He banged on the door.

Sholto opened up for him, clearly surprised by who was there.

"May I come in?" John asked. Sholto said nothing, but nodded and stepped aside to allow John into the small space.

They stared at each other for a few minutes, clearly at a loss. John finally screwed up his courage and said, "I'm sorry. What I did was awful. I'm so, so sorry."

"No, please," Sholto said calmly. "You hadn't thought this through and I was too caught up to realize that in the moment."

"No," John sighed.

Sholto cocked his eyebrow up. "I beg your pardon?"

"I had thought this through. I thought about it a lot. Hell, your back didn't need to be checked every week, and every cricket match I've ever watched has put me to sleep. I did those things because I wanted to be sure that I was actually attracted to you and that you felt similarly." Sholto's mouth was slightly ajar in disbelief, and he was shaking his head. "I don't want anything serious. I'm only looking for sex. I'm attracted to you, and I think you're attracted to me. I need someone in this place, and I think that you do too."

John inched closer to Sholto, and the man stiffened a bit. "Just casual sex?"

John nodded. "If you can't do that, I understand. I want you to know that I won't run out like that again. I can accept this. I will. I promise."

At that, Sholto leaned down and kissed John softly, his hands cupping either side of John's face. John responded eagerly and slid his hand up to the top button of Sholto's shirt. They worked quickly to remove their clothes, and once they were naked Sholto backed John up until the back of his legs knocked into the back of the cot and Sholto was hovering over him. John pulled him down so there was nothing but solid contact between them. They pressed themselves together and gasped into each other's mouths as their arousals brushed parts of the other's body.

"If you aren't opposed," Sholto panted. "I would like it if you were in me tonight."

John paused beneath his superior. "Do you have supplies?"

Sholto reached under his bed and pulled out Vaseline. "It isn't ideal," he admitted. "If you don't want to use this, I understand and we can do something else instead. I also don't have condoms, but you know that I'm free of diseases and I know that you're responsible to a fault. There's no way you would have sex without protection, and if you did somehow acquire a disease, you would never risk another partner's health."

John kissed him. "Switch with me."

Sholto swung under John, and John propped the man's legs up so his knees were bent at John's shoulders. He had had anal sex three times before with particularly adventurous women that he had had short flings with, so he knew what he needed to do to prepare his commander. The only difference was that Sholto had a prostate, and John had performed enough prostate exams to know some of the more embarrassing side effects of having that particular gland prodded. He teased Sholto's anus with his middle finger, which was coated with Vaseline. Gently, he pressed the finger in and, with clinical precision, found the Major's prostate. The man made a muffled sound that was tamped down by his tightly sealed lips. John smiled and flicked over it again. Sholto sent him a glare, and John moved away from the gland and began to move his finger in a circle in order to loosen the man's sphincter. As soon as he felt the ring of muscle give way a bit, John quickly stuck another oily finger inside of Sholto. They worked quickly to open the man up. Once John felt him loosening around three fingers, he decided it was time and he pushed his Vaseline covered penis inside of Sholto.

The man was tight and hot as sin. Sholto's legs were still on John's shoulders, and John had to suckle on the side of one of Sholto's calves in order to keep himself from crying out in shock. It had been so many months since he had been inside of someone else, and that had been nothing like this. Cunts were wet and warm and lovely to be in, but _this _was something else. It was hot but dry, like the desert they were stuck in, only so much better than the desert. Sholto had grabbed a pillow and was squeezing it against his mouth. If they had been anywhere else, John would have wrenched it away. He loved hearing his lovers make noise when they were fucking, but the risk of being heard was too great, so he let the pillow stay in place.

After a small, jerky nod from Sholto, John began to move. He moved slowly to keep the cot from making too much noise and to minimize the risk of either one of them crying out. It was agonizing and he had never felt such a combination of pain and pleasure before then. The sensation building behind his navel and in his balls had never built so slowly, and the tentative and somewhat involuntary squeezes that Sholto was making around his cock were agonizingly beautiful. Ten minutes or so after they had started, John's knee slipped, and with it his cock slipped as well. The change in angle was enough to brush the edge of Sholto's prostate, and the man let out a shocked gasp as well as a small noise. John grinned and began to thrust from that angle. Sholto squeezed him harder each time that he brushed by the gland, and soon John was certain he was going to come. He looked at the commander and tried to form the words, but the man got his message. "On me," he panted, gesturing towards his stomach.

John pulled out quickly and grabbed his cock with one hand and his balls with the other. He stroked quickly and gave his testicles a light tickle and squeeze until he made an embarrassing little gurgling noise and spent himself all over Sholto's stomach. Moving quickly, he bent down and took Sholto into his mouth and stuck three fingers back into the man to ensure accurate hits against his prostate every time he thrust his hand. Sholto wasn't quite as close as John had been, or perhaps it was the somewhat inexpert blunt of teeth against Sholto's shaft that held him back from the edge, because it took another five minutes of sucking and massaging the small bundle inside of him before the taller man hummed happily and pushed John off of his cock so he could wouldn't have to worry about swallowing.

John stood up in order to grab some tissues to clean his fingers and then Sholto's abdomen and anus. He was gentle and almost reverent in his cleaning, as if he was trying to make up for the deplorable way he behaved after their previous encounter. After they were both cleaned up, John didn't lie down next to Sholto. He remained on the cot with a hand on the crook of Sholto's elbow. "I should go," he sighed reluctantly. "Can't have people wondering where I've gotten to."

Sholto nodded. "I understand. Please come to me if you need any more relief, Watson."

John bent down and kissed the man again. "The same goes for you, sir. I'll see you soon." He dressed slowly, almost sorry that he had to put his clothes back on. Once dressed, he gave Sholto one last kiss, then turned and walked out.

As he walked across the camp and back to his office, John wondered what would be happening with them if they hadn't been men at war. Would he be back in Sholto's bed still with their arms wrapped around each other, waiting until their bodies were ready to go again? Or would John have not spared the man a second glance because of his gender and would have filled the space in the bed with a woman whose intelligence was far below his own?


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock and Victor spent a lot of time together, mostly at Victor's insistence. Each time Victor invited Sherlock somewhere (or invited himself somewhere that Sherlock was going), Sherlock felt a twinge of annoyance as well as a small swoop in his stomach that came from a feeling that he couldn't quite place yet. It frustrated him that he didn't have enough data to pinpoint where this feeling was coming from, but as always, Sherlock was a man of science and he was determined to find out just what that annoying sensation of his stomach dropping out of his body was.

Victor was irritatingly accepting of all of Sherlock's personality flaws that his parents found endearing and everyone else found unspeakably irritating. He loved that Sherlock lacked a filter and said everything that he was thinking when he was in a chatty mood. He laughed when Sherlock said something particularly scandalous that only he could see, such as the grocer who had an affinity for cucumbers and other phallic foods. He ensured that Sherlock was out of earshot of the people he was making his deductions about because they did generally tend to be somewhat unsavory ("He's been attempting to perform autofellatio on himself. Look at the way his back is a little stooped over and he walks as if he's chafing. He got the tip in his mouth but couldn't hang on, so he began to suck a bit too roughly, which most likely left a painful bruise or some other irritation." "She's was tied up last night, but her partner likely didn't pay any attention her to pleasure and left her wanting." "Those children stole some candy from Tesco. Two of them feel guilty and are probably seriously considering going and putting the candy back – look at the way they're shifting and looking as if the world is ending every time they look at their pocket or feel the candy bar – but the third is rather pleased with herself and will be doing this again. If she isn't careful her habit will cost her whatever job she gets in the future and probably several personal relationships. Children are criminals in training, Victor. Always suspect that they've done something wrong.") and could get him in trouble from time to time.

"You have such an amazing brain," Victor said breathlessly one day after Sherlock had muttered something about Victor's boss ("attracted to his dog").

"Don't say obvious things, Victor, it gets tedious," Sherlock sighed.

"I'm sorry. I can't help it. You have an incredible brain, Sherlock. What are you going to do with it? How are you going to find something that can keep up with you?"

"I plan to work in a lab conducting obscure experiments that will aid the police who are solving violent crimes. Scotland Yard is full of idiots who don't know a corpse from a warm body." Sherlock scowled, thinking back to when he was a child and he had attempted to get the attention of the police after Carl Powers had drowned.

"Wouldn't you be of more use if you actually joined the police force?" Victor scrunched up his nose in that endearing way that he did so frequently when Sherlock had stumped him. "I mean, if you were out at crime scenes, you would be able to tell what happened in a few seconds."

"Dull, Victor, you aren't _thinking_," Sherlock sighed, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. "I would have to work for years just to make it onto a homicide squad, and even then I would have to listen to a Detective Inspector and obey their every order, even if they were doing the wrong thing. There's a market for what I want to do, they just don't know it yet. Once I've published a few papers, other scientists will work to disprove my results, and when they can't do that Scotland Yard and other law enforcement departments will be forced to listen to me."

Victor shook his head in disbelief. "I don't know what I did to get so lucky, but I can't wait to see you experimenting and to see your face when you're getting recognized for how brilliant you are."

Sherlock was stunned. He stopped walking, and Victor proceeded down the path for a few more steps before he realized that Sherlock wasn't there anymore.

"What is it?" Victor asked, concerned.

"You're being serious about all of this," Sherlock said, swallowing hard.

Victor's brow furrowed. "Of course I am, Sherlock. How have you not gotten that through your head yet? I'm not leaving until you tell me to."

"It just seems impossible," Sherlock said, shaking his head so his curls were bobbing all around his head.

"Listen to me," Victor sighed. "I will never fully be able to comprehend how your brain works, and that's fine. I get that you need hard proof to believe something is true. But Sherlock, and I know this is going to sound awful but I don't know how else to get this through your head, you're not exactly the most likable person in the world. Do you think that someone who wasn't your perfect match would stick around as long as I have?"

"That was unnecessarily cruel," Sherlock muttered.

"It was cruel, but it was necessary. I don't know how else to convince you that I'm being serious about this," Victor sighed. "You're wonderful, and I wish that you weren't so fucking abrasive to others because if people knew how you really are under that protective barrier you put up, the world would be so much better off. You don't need them, I know, but they need you, Sherlock Holmes, and if there is one thing I wish I could do it would be to make everyone else see how fantastic you are. You seeing color would be second, because I want you to believe me more than anything, but I would rather have you doubt me than have the rest of the world treat you like some sort of lesser person because of the way your brain works."

With that, Victor turned and kept walking, leaving Sherlock frozen in the middle of the park to think about what he had said.

Three hours later, Sherlock knocked on the door to Victor's flat. The man looked dejected when he opened the door, but when he saw Sherlock he perked up. Before Victor could say anything, Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a light kiss to Victor's lips.

As they broke apart, Victor let out a huff of a laugh and said, "_That_ is what I was waiting for."

Sherlock smiled shyly and knew that he was most likely blushing. "That's all I'm comfortable with."

"I can wait," Victor sighed, tucking a curl behind Sherlock's ear. "Shall we step out of the hallway? I was just about to eat. You're more than welcome to some."

"Digestion slows my thought processes," Sherlock said as a refusal.

"It also keeps you alive," Victor replied. He pushed Sherlock onto his couch and walked into the kitchen where he prepared a plate for both of them. Sherlock stared at his plate of food intending not to eat it, but he looked up and Victor was watching him, also not eating and clearly waiting on Sherlock to get started before he began to eat. After a few bites, Victor said, "See. Eating a bit won't kill you."

Sherlock grunted, but continued to eat. They were silent while eating, but as soon as they were both finished, Sherlock said, "I would like to experiment more with what we were doing earlier if that's alright with you."

Victor laughed. "As if I would ever not be alright with snogging."

"No." Sherlock scrunched his nose. "Not full-on snogging. Just a bit of what we did at the door. Nothing wild, and no tongue."

"That's something I would be willing to wait for," Victor said in his irritatingly patient way. "Now come here. I can't kiss you from all the way across the couch."

Shyly, Sherlock scooted over to the other end of the furniture so he was next to Victor, but with a few inches of space left between the two of them. Victor took one of his hands, tilted his head, and leaned in. After a few seconds, Sherlock pulled back, sputtering. The swooping feeling was there, but instead of being just a little dip it felt as if his stomach was dropping out and wasn't going to stop moving towards the ground.

For his part, Victor looked concerned. "Not quite ready?"

Sherlock shook his head furiously. "No, it's this stupid sensation that I've been trying to figure out since we began to spend time together. I feel as if my stomach is dropping out, but when you kissed me I didn't think that it would pull back up like it has been after a few seconds. I don't know what it is and that infuriates me." He hopped up and began pacing around the room. Victor sat calmly.

"I know what that means, Sherlock."

Sherlock froze. "Tell me!" He hated begging, but it was getting ridiculous.

"I can't tell you, but I'll give you a hint. I started feeling that for you when we first met, and I haven't stopped feeling it ever since." Seeing the puzzled look on Sherlock's face, Victor sighed and said, "I'm attracted to you, Sherlock, and based on what you're telling me I would bet that you're attracted to me as well. Now you can either torment yourself from over there, or you can come back over here and let me kiss you until both of our stomachs drop out of our bodies."

"That's impossible," Sherlock huffed, throwing himself back down onto the couch.

"Shut up," Victor breathed onto his lips, and the next thing Sherlock knew, Victor's lips were on his and his stomach was still struggling to get out of his body, but not uncomfortably. Nothing is uncomfortable when all of the facts are available to be analyzed.


	5. Chapter 5

Three weeks after he and Sholto had fucked, John had only been able to see the man intimately five times. There had been a string of IED detonations as well as firefights, and most days John would wake up, scrub up, be in surgery all day, and then topple into his bed for four hours of sleep. He wanted to go and see Sholto, but it seemed like every time he thought he could get away some other young person was being brought into camp mangled and bloodied.

One night, John was at his desk. It was late and he knew he should be getting some sleep, but two of the three people he had operated on that day had died on the table. John was a rational man and knew that he couldn't expect all of his patients to live, especially in a war zone, but it never hurt any less when he was unable to save someone. He pressed the heels of his palms roughly into his eyes as if to will them to shut and leave all of the images of dead people behind, but he was interrupted by a knock on his door.

"Busy," he called, wanting nothing more than to curl up under his desk and sleep for ten years.

The door opened in spite of his claims of being busy, and there stood Sholto.

"I can't right now," he sighed as Sholto shut the door. "I'm sorry. I wish I could, but I can't."

"I didn't come here for that," Sholto stated. He sat in the chair on the other side of the desk. "I came to see how you were. We had a rough day today."

John let out a bitter bark of a laugh. "You're telling me. I didn't lose anyone from our country. It isn't your concern."

"Professionally, you're right. This isn't my concern. You are someone who I value very much and I see you as my concern in this situation. So, Watson: how are you feeling?"

John shook his head. "I really can't talk about it. I'm sorry. I wish I could but I just can't. I haven't even begun to process what happened today. You can't expect me to have processed this already. I lost two _kids_ today, sir. Neither of them were older than twenty two. They were practically children, and they needed me to do my job which I didn't do well enough to save them. I have to expect things like this to happen, but today was awful and the girl who made it off the table may not actually make it through the night because her heart is so damaged. Please don't make me talk about how I feel about today because I haven't even had time to think about feeling."

Sholto nodded. "Of course. I just wanted to ensure you were taking care of yourself properly."

"I will. I promise," John sighed.

Sholto stood and walked around to the other side of the desk so he was staring right down at John. Before John could register what was happening, Sholto had dropped to his knees and had his face buried in John's crotch.

"Major," John sighed, torn between wanting to be alone to brood and the desire to feel Sholto again.

"If you don't want this, please say so," Sholto murmured. "But please, allow me to take care of you in this small way."

Knowing there was no turning back, John ran a hand gently along the close-cropped hair on Sholto's head. With a soft hum of approval, Sholto undid his trousers and slipped them down so they were puddled around his ankles. The man mouthed at John's cock, which was filling out, through his boxers. John tilted his head back and rolled his shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension in his body so he could get into what Sholto was doing. Sensing that John was still unbelievably tense, Sholto wiggled his hands under John and lifted his legs so his hamstrings were resting on his shoulders. He used the extra space to nudge John's pants down, the set his legs back down so the boxers could join his trousers around his ankles.

Sholto only touched John's penis with the tip of his nose, running it up and down and then around the head before engulfing the head with his mouth and bobbing up and down in order to take a bit more with almost every swallow. John's thighs were tense with the effort to not rock up into Sholto's mouth. Sensing the tension, Sholto ran his fingernails over the tops of John's thighs and popped off. "Don't hold back, Watson," Sholto sighed onto his cock. He didn't move until John nodded, and with that motion he dipped back down and took John into his mouth again.

John moaned and thrust up into his commander's mouth. The pressure on his penis was excruciating and lovely all at the same time, and he couldn't help but squirm from side to side rather than up and down in response to a sensation that walked the fine line between discomfort and pleasure. Sholto took pity on him when John gave a low, stuttering moan around the fist he had stuffed in his mouth by sucking him all the way down and making his mouth like a vacuum around John's cock. Another few minutes passed, and John was frantically shoving at the Major's shoulder, urging him to pull back. Sholto ignored him and swallowed continuously through John's orgasm. He pulled off with a kiss to the head of John's penis and a slight grimace on his face.

"You should have pulled off," John panted.

Sholto shook his head. "There was nowhere it could have gone without being either obvious or uncomfortable for one of us. Perhaps next time I'll bring a few tissues." Both of them chuckled, and John felt a bit lightheaded at the implication of a _next time_.

"Sorry, forgot my manners. Let me." John reached out to Sholto's belt, but the Major caught his wrists.

"I'm expected somewhere. I'm late as it is," he smiled ruefully. He dipped down to kiss John on the forehead, clearly mindful of the residual taste of semen in his mouth. John appreciated that. He had kissed a few girls after they had swallowed his spend, but he quickly learned to request that they either let him come outside of their mouths or they brush their teeth after if they insisted on swallowing. Once the chaste and somewhat affectionate kiss had finished, Sholto turned and left the office without another word.

John slumped back in his chair. "_Fuck_," he exhaled heavily. Whatever was happening between them was getting way out of hand if the fluttering in his chest was any indicator.


	6. Chapter 6

"I've started seeing someone."

Sherlock had gone home (without Victor, who had to work the evening before and the morning after) for Easter and decided to tell his family about the somewhat new addition to his life then. He didn't look up from his plate, knowing full well that his entire family would be staring at him. He heard the sudden stop in utensils moving, but he continued to cut his helping of duck into smaller pieces so he could get away with eating a bit less.

"When did this start?" Mummy asked. She sounded breathless. Sherlock didn't understand why. It wasn't as if she was the one who was starting a new relationship. No matter how much she and his father loved each other, Sherlock was sure that the novelty would wear off soon enough in his relationship with Victor.

"Six months ago." Honestly, when were they going to stop staring at him? "Longer than Mycroft's last diet ended up being." He felt Mycroft cringe beside him.

"Stop baiting your brother and apologize, Sherlock," his father sighed, and Sherlock could see him reaching over to pat Mycroft's forearm gently.

Sherlock looked up and was planning on offering some sort of insincere apology, but when he looked up he muttered a quick apology that was so close to sincere that he surprised himself as well as everyone else at the table. For all of his icy exterior, Mycroft was the more romantic of the brothers. Sherlock knew how desperately Mycroft wanted to find his soul mate, and hearing that Sherlock was seeing someone must have been unbearable, especially considering the fact that Sherlock was so much younger and had had to wait a substantially shorter amount of time to find his.

"If you'll excuse me," Mycroft said softly. He stood and walked out of the kitchen door that led to the back side of the property. Sherlock's parents exchanged a knowing look, and his father got up and followed his elder son out of the house.

"That wasn't very nice, Sherlock," Mummy sighed. Sherlock grunted, and when she had accepted that she wouldn't get any other response from him, she said, "Tell me about this person."

"His name is Victor." Sherlock looked for some sort of reaction from her, but his mother's face betrayed no sign of shock at the news that her son was seeing another man. "He's a few years older than I am and works in a bookshop a few blocks from my flat."

His mother sat still, clearly waiting for some sort of explanation other than this. "I assume he hasn't found his soul mate either, then?"

Sherlock was puzzled. "What do you mean, Mummy?"

"I mean I want you to be prepared for the worst just in case you get attached and then he meets his soul mate. The same goes for if you find yours first. You need to be prepared for things to end rather suddenly with Victor."

Alarm bells began to sound in Sherlock's head, but he forced himself to remain outwardly calm. "No, you misunderstand. Apparently I'm color blind, Mummy. Victor started seeing color the moment that we met but I didn't."

His mother's eyes went narrow. "Sherlock, you know that color blindness isn't a trait that neither your father nor I carry. You can't be color blind. It's genetically impossible for you to be."

Somewhere far off, Sherlock could hear his mother talking more, but he couldn't focus on her.

"-still there?" His mother asked, clearly concerned.

"That's impossible," Sherlock snapped, but his voice lacked its usual bite. "Why would someone hang around me if they weren't my soul mate? I'm intolerable. Victor says so all the time, and everyone else I've ever met has thought that. Why would someone spend time around me and want to devote the rest of their life to me if they weren't my soul mate?"

"I can't tell you why he's doing it, but he's lying to you, love." His mother looked so sad. "Mycroft has access to some new technology through his job, and you know how he is about finding his soul mate. Someone who works in a government facility came up with a test for the trait that causes color blindness, and Mycroft was able to get both myself and your father tested for the gene last summer. The facility prohibits running the test on someone who doesn't know their status, so he asked us to have ourselves tested. He was convinced that he should have found his soul mate by now and wanted to know if there was a chance that he was missing something because of his genetics, but he isn't. Your father and I both only carry dominant traits, and the trait that causes color blindness is recessive. Sherlock. Love, breathe."

Mummy reached out to him, but Sherlock was suffocating. He needed to get out of the house and away from his mother's words. There was no way she could be right. There was absolutely no chance that she was telling the truth. Any moment, his father and brother would come back and the three of them would laugh at Sherlock for believing her and then would congratulate him on his find. That moment never happened. Sherlock's mother bit her bottom lip nervously, and then she went out back to find his father and Mycroft. Sherlock shot out of his chair and ran out after her.

The three of them were talking in hushed tones when he walked out. His father looked livid, and Mycroft's face had lines of concern that Sherlock had noticed were reserved only for him on his face. The three of them fell silent when Sherlock approached.

"Is it true?" He looked back and forth between his father and Mycroft.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Father said sadly. "I wish I could tell you otherwise. Scientifically there is no way for you to be color blind. I don't know if Victor is lying about being able to see color or if he saw his soul mate while he was looking at you but his soul mate didn't see him and still can't see color, but he isn't your soul mate. He can't be."

"He has been hanging off of me for _months_," Sherlock spat. "When I didn't believe him at first he sat on a bench outside of my flat and brought me flowers every day for two months. Why would someone put that much effort into trying to convince me we're soul mates to have that be wrong?"

No one answered him. There was nothing to say to that. Sherlock felt as if he was being picked apart organ by organ from the inside of his body outward.

"He's at his place. I have to go and speak with him." He looked at all of the members of his family, his eyes wild.

"I'll drive you back," Father finally said. "You need to know what is actually happening."

Father had parked the car at a discreet distance down the block from Victor's flat. He made it very clear that he didn't trust Sherlock not to go running if something happened and that he wouldn't fall for the trick of waiting back at Sherlock's place if he was going to run off and make all of them crazy with worry.

Sherlock's hands were shaking as he unlocked the front door to the building. Victor had given him a key months ago. If Victor had been playing him all this time, he wouldn't have given Sherlock a key.

That thought didn't comfort Sherlock as he climbed the stairs to Victor's third floor flat. He kept his tread as light as possible so he didn't tip Victor off to his presence. Screwing up his courage, he took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

Fifteen excruciating seconds passed before the door was opened. Instead of Victor's comforting face, Sherlock was greeted by a sickening sight. Sebastian Wilkes was in the doorway.

"Love, who is it?" Victor called, clearly without a care in the world.

"I believe that the ruse is up, dear," Sebastian said, his voice annoyingly calm and even.

"Oh bugger." Victor appeared in the doorway, looking grim. "I was really hoping that since we made it this far, we could get through the whole year before he figured it out."

"Victor," Sherlock whispered. "Please tell me what's going on right now."

"Oh, let him in, Seb. We have to tell him." Instead of acting like a man who had been caught by his soul mate with his lover, Victor was irritatingly and alarmingly calm about what was happening. "Fancy a drink, Sherlock?"

"No thank you." Sherlock's voice was flat and almost unrecognizable to himself. Sebastian gestured to the couch, but Sherlock remained standing in the center of the room. Victor walked in with two bottles of bitter and flopped down on the couch next to Sebastian. He handed the extra bottle to Sebastian, who accepted it with a smile. He flopped his arm on the back of the couch and Victor leaned into his side. The gesture was so familiar between Victor and Sebastian. Sherlock had thought that it had been fairly natural between himself and Victor, but all evidence pointed away from that now.

"Explain."

Victor and Sebastian looked at each other, as if deciding who should start first. Victor eventually spoke. "Seb and I are soul mates. We met three years ago when he was at orientation and I was finishing up my degree. Neither of us was particularly comfortable with the idea of having our soul mate be a man, so we kept everything secret. No one else knows, or rather, no one else knew until just now."

"Why did you feel the need to tell me we were soul mates then?" Sherlock asked.

"Victor is an actor," Sebastian cut in. "He's been trying to land a big part for ages, but he hasn't been successful. I came up with the idea of staying in character for several months, much like some actors will do while they're doing a play or a movie. We invented a new persona for him, and we spent months testing it out. It wasn't working with just the two of us though because we know each other so well. That's where you come in." Sebastian stood up and began to walk towards Sherlock. "Poor, unlovable freak who thinks that he's suddenly found the thing that he never believed in, but now that it's here he can't see it and it's up to the poor fucker stuck with him to convince him that they belong together and make them fall in love."

"I have to say, I think I did pretty well with that, didn't I Sherlock?" Victor looked pleased with himself. It made Sherlock's stomach turn.

"So everything you've said to me has just been a calculated part of your character?" Sherlock growled. "You used me so you could _practice_?"

"It's pretty brilliant, isn't it Sherlock?" Sebastian was smiling at Victor as if he couldn't believe how long they had kept their little scheme going. The two of them were lost in the other one's smile when Sherlock turned on his heel and slammed the door behind them. He dashed down the stairs, again needing air. As he rounded the landing and started on the final staircase, he heard Victor and Sebastian laughing loudly. He leapt down the stairs but misjudged the distance and landed on his ankle. The sound that the bone made was loud and disturbing, and Sherlock let out a cry of pain as he rolled on the ground. He could still hear Victor and Sebastian, which made his eyes burn and his ears hurt. The pain in his ankle was awful, but there was a new feeling as well, like an iron band tightening around his lungs so he couldn't draw a deep breath.

It took him a few minutes, but Sherlock managed to crawl out of the building gingerly. His father was clearly watching the door carefully, and he dashed out of the car in order to investigate why his son was on the ground. Sherlock would never know what on his face made his father's flash with worry, but the man scooped him up with strength and agility that was fitting of a younger man and carried him to the car. Sherlock's cheeks burned, knowing that Victor and Sebastian could probably see him being carried away, broken both physically and emotionally. He was hurt and ashamed, and he would have liked nothing more than to find a large blunt object to beat his head against over and over until the excruciating pain of existing finally stopped.

Instead, he was taken to the hospital, had his bone set, and was given painkillers. He went back to his parent's house for the week following Easter, and the painkillers were the only things that made the pitying stares from his family remotely bearable. His mind was quiet and his heart didn't feel quite so broken while he was on the pills. Of course, like any prescription, his ran out, and he lived for a few days believing that the world was ending.

Eventually, his parents let him go back to school, which was where (after some discreet research) he tracked down his first cocaine dealer.


	7. Chapter 7

Greg Lestrade hated his job only on occasion. For example, when the new forensics guy, Anderson, was working with their team, things were fairly shitty. Anderson couldn't tell a dead body from a live one, but his grandfather had been a well-respected DI for several decades so that sealed the deal on hiring him. Other occasions that warranted him hating his job included but were not totally limited to when he had to don body armor to talk with a suspect, when someone who was definitely guilty had to be released, and when the government got involved in his cases.

He began listing the reasons why he hated his job occasionally one day when he knew he was about to step in it with some of the more covert ministries of the government. He was furiously chomping on nicotine gum and standing outside of the cell that held the man who had just been arrested for killing six people who had not been in the country legally. At least two of the victims were well-known members of extremist groups that had been in hiding in London, and Lestrade would bet most of his next paycheck on the fact that the other four people were also in the city for similar reasons. The people who were dead were not good people, but there was no excuse for murder. The suspect may have been doing the world a service by eliminating any threats that the victims may have posed to the country, but the victims should have been left to live out the rest of their lives in a maximum security prison. That would have been crueler than their quick deaths.

As he sat outside of the cell door, Greg began to think about things other than work. Things such as Marjorie, his ex. They had known they weren't soul mates, but they decided to take a chance and try a relationship anyways. Their reasoning had been that with so many other people in the world, the chances of them finding their soul mates were slim. They liked each other, and the sex was fantastic, so they took the plunge. Things were great, and had been great for over a decade, but one day he had come home and Marjorie was crying on the sofa.

"I met my soul mate today," she sobbed.

Greg had frozen. He knew there was a chance of this happening to them, but it had been so long that he had sort of forgotten that this was a possibility.

"I'm sorry," she hiccupped. "I told him I had a partner. You don't have to worry."

Greg took her in his arms. "Maybe you should spend some time with him and see whether or not there's something there." Marjorie looked up at him, hurt. "I still love you more than anything," he clarified. "I want you to be the happiest you can be, and if that means that I'm pushed aside then I'll understand. It'll hurt, but I would never be able to blame you for that."

They had sex for the last time that night. Both of them cried throughout the whole act, and it was more bittersweet than loving. The next day, Greg found a motel to stay at, and a week later he was signing a month-to-month lease on a tiny flat. The next month, Marjorie called him and told him that she and her soul mate were getting married. She sobbed into the phone, and Greg had let silent tears leak from the corners of his eyes on his end of the connection. They spent the next weekend splitting up their assets, and soon Marjorie was married and pregnant while Greg was still crying himself to sleep at a somewhat alarming number of nights per week.

The fact that she had found her soul mate didn't bother Greg. He was a grown up, and they had both known what they were getting into when they decided to become more than just a casual fuck. Still, after so many years together, both of them had sort of forgotten about the fact that they didn't have a soul mate and would have been more than happy to live out their lives together. He shuddered when he thought of the empty apartment that awaited him, and he swapped out the piece of gum in his mouth for a brand new one. It didn't do anything to help. Greg sighed. His back hurt and his lungs ached for a cigarette. He knew that there would be suits arriving for the man soon enough and that he wouldn't be able to stop them, but he could try to put up a fight when they did get there. Trying to do something, even though it would be futile, would settle his conscience more than if he stood back and just let the suits take him away without a word.

His phone began to ring, breaking him out of his reverie. The number was blocked and Greg knew that this would be some higher-up telling him to stand down. He considered letting it ring through to voicemail for about two seconds, but he had a feeling that the caller would persist until he picked up the phone and spoke with them.

"Lestrade," he answered gruffly.

"Good evening, Detective Inspector," a cool, polished voice said through the earpiece. "I do hope that I'm not disturbing you."

"Who is this?"

"Let's just say that I am someone who has a vested interest in the status of one James Smythe, who I believe is in your custody right now," the man replied.

"I'm guessing you're calling to tell me that someone will be here to release him soon and that there will be no record of his arrest?" Greg asked, trying to put all of the bitterness he felt into his voice.

"I know you don't agree with this decision, Inspector," the man said. "Unfortunately, there is nothing that you can do that can overrule my need to remove him from your custody."

"You're making a bad choice," Lestrade growled.

"I never make bad choices, Inspector. Nevertheless, he was on a top secret mission for MI6 that was vital to the security of Britain. His work was sloppy enough that you were able to catch him, and for that I promise you he shall be reprimanded. He was only carrying out orders that we had given him."

"Well, it's very comforting to know that the government takes whatever liberties it desires when it comes to missions that are not kosher for the general public. Have a good night." Greg rang off, punching the screen of his phone angrily. He longed for the days of landlines and payphones in this moment. Slamming the phone onto the receiver was always a somewhat satisfying way to end a conversation that hadn't gone well.

Greg didn't want to have to see whatever agents come and take his suspect away, so he wrenched open the door to the stairwell and marched up to his office on the fifth floor. His team had left for the day, and he wanted nothing more than to sit in his office and drink too many glasses of the scotch he had kept hidden in his desk for days like this. He threw open the door and flipped on the lights, made eye contact with a man sitting at his desk chair, and shut his eyes tight against the onslaught of color.

The man in his chair yelped, and Greg growled. "What the _fuck_ is happening?"

"Though I am not an expert in these things, Detective Inspector," the man replied through gritted teeth, "I believe that we are seeing color."

Greg didn't even have the presence of mind to give a snarky reply. Everything had been completely dark before, and he turned on the lights and expected to see the somewhat muted shades of grey that he had always seen. This was excruciating, though. Everything was so bright.

"Hang on," he said, struggling to open his eyes. "Your voice. You and I just spoke on the phone. You were the one who was sending people to pick up Smythe. You've got to be fucking kidding me. My soul mate is a meddling MI6er?"

"I'm sorry to disappoint," the man said, his voice betraying absolutely no emotion.

"No, not necessarily _disappointment_, I'm just not feeling particularly compassionate towards your agency at the moment." He paused and then added, "Have you been able to open your eyes without feeling like your retinas are going to deteriorate?"

"Unfortunately no, I have not," the man answered. "I am rather curious to know what you look like."

"Me too. I'm going to turn out the lights. Maybe gradually adjusting our eyes to the brightness will help." Greg shifted blindly along the wall, groping for the light switch. When the room was once again plunged into darkness, he opened his eyes. The blinds had been shut hours ago, so only very small slivers of light were coming in. There were also small sources of light from around the room – a button on his computer indicating it was in "sleep" mode, a power strip, a cell phone – but none of them gave him a clear picture of what his soul mate looked like.

"Much better," the man sighed, clearly relieved. "Thank you, Detective Inspector."

"It's Greg," he responded. "If you're my soul mate you should get used to using my name. I don't particularly like going by my title."

"Of course. My apologies."

There was an awkward silence before Greg asked, "Am I allowed to know who you are, or is that a part of your identity that has to remain secret along with whatever mission Smythe was on?"

"My name is Mycroft Holmes," his soul mate responded.

"Mycroft," Greg said, letting his mouth become familiar with the name. "I've never heard that one before. I like it."

"Do you?" Mycroft sounded surprised.

"Oh yeah. Much more interesting that 'Gregory,'" Greg quickly agreed. "Why? Don't you like it?"

"I've found throughout my life that there is very little tolerance for young people with strange names," he said almost sadly. "I do loathe when people shorten my name, as my mother is so fond of doing. It would have been much easier to deal with a shortened name that wasn't so obscure."

"Well, I think it suits you," Greg said confidently.

Mycroft made a disbelieving sound. "You've never even seen me. How would you know?"

"It works with your voice," Greg said. Mycroft fell silent. "Too much?" Greg asked.

"Quite the contrary," Mycroft responded.

"Glad to hear that." Greg walked around his desk and stood next to the window. "I'm going to open the blinds just a bit." As the room was bathed in a very faint light, Greg could tell a few things about Mycroft. Even though he was sitting down, it was evident that the man was tall, probably taller than he was. He seemed fairly slender, and his hair looked a bit thin and as if it had receded a bit. "Alright?"

"Yes, thank you," Mycroft answered. "You were correct – gradually introducing light is the best way to acclimate ourselves to the new colors we are able to see."

"I'm right from time to time," Greg said, clearly joking. "Well, we're clearly going to be here for a little while, so why don't you tell me a bit about yourself."

Mycroft seemed shocked that Greg was asking him that question. "You don't have to if you don't want to – or if you _can't_, which I suspect might be the case here."

"No, not at all," Mycroft quickly said. "It's just that no one ever asks that question."

"Well, I am," Greg said stubbornly. "I'm genuinely interested, so tell me about yourself, Mycroft."

Mycroft started slowly. He was posh and had been raised in a well-off family, but his parents clearly never spoiled him, except for when it came to his education. He had a brother, younger by seven years, who was a rather reckless and troubled soul, but it was clear to Greg that he loved his brother. As Mycroft spoke of his job, he was deliberately vague, and Greg knew better than to ask. He knew that the man worked for MI6, and if he knew what was good for him he should forget that fact altogether.

While Mycroft spoke, Greg twisted the blinds in his office more and more, and soon he and Mycroft were bathed in a light glow that was interrupted every inch or so by a thin shadow. The man's full face was still an enigma at this point, but Greg could see snowy skin and a long nose. He wondered just how he looked to Mycroft.

"Shall I try to turn on the desk lamp?" Mycroft asked suddenly. "My eyes are accustomed to this light, and your lamp will be much less harsh than the overhead light. I must admit, I am curious to see what you look like."

"Sure." Greg's voice was somewhat muted, and he cursed his nerves. He interrogated violent serial killers. Surely he wasn't nervous about meeting his soul mate.

The dark form of Mycroft's hand – long and elegant, Greg noted – reached over to the switch on the lamp and pressed down on it. The light was harsh for a moment, but it was much more bearable than what they had experienced when Greg turned on the first light.

Mycroft was adjusting less quickly, and Greg assumed the man had a lighter eye color than he did. His sister had pale blue eyes, and she had trouble with bright lights even before she had met her soul mate. He took advantage of Mycroft's temporary vulnerability in order to study the man quickly. Greg's breath stuttered. The man was lovely. Greg had never given much thought to gender when it came to his soul mate, but his sexual and romantic history had been exclusively with women. He hadn't considered being matched with a man, and to his knowledge he hadn't looked twice at another man before, but the moment he saw Mycroft he was blown away.

"You're stunning," Greg exhaled.

Mycroft's eyes were still struggling to open fully, but he scrunched his nose and said, "I am hardly lovely, Gregory. I'm sure the color is just mixing up your perceptions of attractiveness."

"I mean it," Greg said. "Even in black and white you would be stunning. My God, Mycroft."

A moment later, Mycroft wrestled his eyes open and took in Greg's face. "You're being serious."

"Of course I am," Greg scoffed. "You're breathtaking."

Mycroft blushed – _pink_, Greg's mind supplied – and he ducked his head. "May I also say that I find you rather attractive?"

"Sure you can," Greg grinned, some of the old cockiness he had had before he and Marjorie broke up coming through. "How are your eyes?"

"They've adjusted more, thank you." Mycroft stood and walked over to Greg, surveying him. Greg was feeling a bit scrutinized when Mycroft gestured to the couch against the wall in front of Greg's desk. "Shall we sit? I should like to hear about you and I don't think that either of us will be ready to leave just yet. Though it is dark, the streetlamps and other light pollution will be plentiful enough that it could prove painful for us."

"How considerate," Greg smiled. They both sat, and Mycroft kept a bit of distance between the two of them. Greg appreciated that.

"Well," he said as an introduction. "Where to begin…"

**A quick note on seeing color:**

**Greg and Mycroft have a very strong reaction to being able to see color. Victor's reaction in chapter two was much more subtle than theirs. As you now know, Victor had been able to see color for some time, but even still, his faked reaction to this new revelation was far less dramatic. The way that I see it is that Victor and Sherlock were outside when they met. Much like with actual color blindness, people in this universe can see brightness. As it was bright out then, he may have blinked a few times to acclimate himself with the change he was claiming to undergo. Greg and Mycroft were in a dark office building. They went from almost total blackness to bright light and a phenomenon that they had never experience before. For them, I think it was more like the reaction that an infant has after it leaves the birth canal and is bombarded with light.**


	8. Chapter 8

Initially, they had just agreed on casual sex, but John quickly found himself and the Major drifting away from that. There had been a few times where he had gone to Sholto intending to have sex, but they had ended up kissing each other deeply for long periods of time and then drifting off together for short naps. It was apparent that they were becoming more attached to each other than they would like to admit.

Dominguez commented on it one day when he caught John staring off into the distance with what was probably a fairly lovelorn grin plastered on his face. John had blushed furiously, but it was impossible for him to wipe the grin off of his face.

John and Sholto carried on for several months like this. Neither of them wanted to admit that they wanted something more from their arrangement. John supposed that, on his part, it was a combination of a fear of an official reprimand since they had different ranks and a fear that he would be rejected because he was misreading Sholto. John decided that he would rather keep whatever they had rather than risk losing Sholto altogether.

The night where everything fell apart went something like this:

John, in his own opinion, had gotten fairly skilled at giving blow jobs. Sholto seemed to like them, and that was good enough for him right then. They hadn't seen each other in days, and John had wasted no time in wrapping his lips around Sholto's cock. He couldn't take his commander all the way in, but he had gauged how much he could take without gagging, which made things much sexier. Sholto had a hand on one of John's cheeks and was gently rubbing it. His head was thrown back and he was panting heavily up at the ceiling.

"Off, Watson," Sholto managed to gasp. John popped up and kissed the Major while reaching between them for the man's penis. He tugged a few times, and Sholto was coming. Once he had gathered his wits and, Sholto pulled off John's shirt and began kissing the firm abdominal muscles in front of him. John had found that Sholto loved using his teeth, and he wasn't opposed to the man leaving marks on him, so long as they could be covered up by his uniform. Sholto kissed down the light line of coarse hair that bisected the top of John's trousers, and when he hit the cloth he began to nibble and suck on that small but sensitive area. John rocked forward and moaned, his cock filling out at a good pace. As Sholto finished off one of many love bites, a knocking sound came at the door.

John and Sholto quickly hopped back into their clothes, thankful for the quick ability to dress that the military had given them. As they pulled their clothes on, someone called, "Watson, I know you're in there for a cricket match. Come on, open up."

Sholto wrenched open the door, looking scarily put together after his orgasm. Hopkins, another soldier, was standing there, breathless.

"Dominguez got caught in an IED," Hopkins panted. "They just called it in. He's going to be here in a few minutes. We need you in there."

John bustled to the door. "Sorry about the match, sir. Let's try for another time soon?" John asked nonchalantly while looking at the Major. He had expected that Sholto would understand, but the man looked shocked and somewhat angry at the fact that John was leaving. John cocked an eyebrow.

"Yes, of course Watson," Sholto agreed, but there was something about his demeanor that worried John. He didn't have much time to think about it thought because within a few minutes he was scrubbed up and entering the operating room to wait for his friend to be brought in.

John Watson was not a crier. His sister was, but while she shed enough tears for the whole family John stood with his back straight and his face set in a stony mask. When he got back to his office after Dominguez had been pronounced dead, John sank down to the floor and sobbed for God knows how long. He didn't notice that his door had opened until a familiar pair of legs stood in front of him.

"Watson, up," Sholto commanded. John looked up at him as if his face would convince the Major to not pull rank on him, but Sholto's face was unfamiliarly stony. This wasn't the face of the man that John had found himself falling for over the past months. He struggled up to his feet and stood at attention in front of Sholto.

"What was your relationship with the deceased?"

John choked. "He was my colleague. We were friends."

"Were you anything other than friends?" Sholto asked.

"Of course we weren't!" John gasped, shocked by Sholto's assumption.

"I know for a fact that you've lost friends here before, Watson, but you've never reacted this strongly towards losing any one of them. I know what we have is casual, but I dislike the idea of the dangers of one of us having more than one partner."

"Is it really casual anymore, though?" John asked.

Sholto looked stunned. "Of course it is," he replied, his voice cold. "You don't think that I want anything other than sex from our arrangement, do you? Your company is nice, but outside our physical relationship I feel nothing other than platonic feelings for you."

John's heart sank. He could feel his hands trembling. He swallowed and said in a low, thick voice, "What would happen if I wanted more?"

For a moment, Sholto seemed stunned. John knew how it must seem to him. The straight officer who had bolted from his bed on the first night they shared had developed feelings for him only a few months later, but he didn't feel anything back. John cringed at the irony.

"Watson, if you are starting to get more attached than I am, I'm afraid that I'll have to put an end to our liaisons," the Major sighed, clearly disappointed. "I'm sorry that it had to end this way, but you know that in the grand scheme of things this will be much better for both of us."

"I can stop them," John pleaded. "I can just ignore them. Please. I would rather have you in a casual sense than lose you altogether."

The smile that Sholto gave him was one of the grimmest things that John had ever seen. "Watson, if you think that wasn't a plea to try and make me stay so you could convince me to love you like you love me, then that leaves no doubt in my mind that this is the right thing to do. I'm so sorry that things didn't work between us. I shall miss your company immensely."

With those words, Sholto stepped around John and walked out the door. John was all alone again in his office and was permitted to resume his somewhat hysterical sobbing. This time, much to his shame and horror, his tears were less for his fallen comrade and more for the fact that for the first time in his life, John Watson had fallen in love. He had fallen in love and the person who he had fallen for didn't love him back.

John moved in a furious fog for the next three months. He volunteered to go on fairly dangerous field missions so he could patch up injured soldiers up as they fell. His colleagues worried about him, but they couldn't afford to tell him to pull back. With the loss of three surgeons, they were severely short of medical people. He didn't care about the risks he was taking as much as he should have. He behaved recklessly, running into dangerous situations to retrieve a body or an injured soldier to drag back to a somewhat safe place where they could be patched up.

Sholto tried to speak with John about something other than direct orders a few times, but John blew him off. The man clearly didn't feel the same way that John did, so he shut him out. The last time they spoke, Sholto had tried to express his concern for the way John was acting and the way that he feared for his safety, but John had mentioned having to go out with a unit on a covert mission that couldn't be delayed. Sholto had left, ordering John to speak with him once he got back from that mission.

John Watson never did completely return from that mission, though. He was rushed back to the camp to be stabilized, and then he was quickly flown home for extensive medical treatment for a bullet wound to his shoulder that he had obtained while trying to save a young Scottish soldier who had caught a bullet near his femoral artery in his right leg.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock couldn't remember where he was. He knew that was unusual for him, but he couldn't remember why it was unusual. It just was.

Everything hurt and his wrist was cold and restrained. He felt as if he had been crushed by an object that dwarfed even his brother's weight. No, that wasn't nice. Mummy wouldn't like him to think like that. Mummy also didn't like the cocaine, but cocaine made everything better. If only he could get to the cocaine, that would solve his problems. Where was his cocaine? He still had needles left from when Mycroft had dropped some off last. His brother made many needle deliveries, alone with pleas for him to get sober, but Sherlock could never swear off the cocaine. Cocaine would make the pain stop.

"Good, you're up," a gruff voice said. "Mind telling me what you were doing on one of my crime scenes earlier today?"

_Crime scene?_ Oh yes. There had been a murder. It looked like an accident but it most definitely wasn't which made Sherlock's heart sing. So few things made his heart sing these days aside from cocaine. Where was his cocaine? If Mycroft had taken it, Sherlock would kill him.

"I have all day," the voice said. Sherlock's eyes cracked open a bit and a prematurely grey man stood there. There were wires and monitors going every which way out of his body, and one of his wrists was handcuffed to a bed. He must be in a hospital. Why would he be in a hospital with a wrist handcuffed to a bed? He had seen officers in an alley and had gone to help. He _had_ helped! They knew what type of murder weapon was used as well as some details about the anonymous corpse that had been unceremoniously dumped in a grungy part of town. It seemed like the officer wasn't too happy that he had helped though. The man, the Detective Inspector, he recalled, had been the one he was next to, but he didn't remember anything about an arrest. He should have been rewarded for his good deed, as Sherlock was one to rarely perform a good deed.

"It was murder, not an accident, Detective Inspector," Sherlock grumbled.

"So you said," the man said calmly. "Why don't you tell me who you are, since you don't have any form of ID with you? You stormed onto the scene and were high as a bloody kite. We arrested you, but you had taken enough cocaine to overdose, so we brought you here. The sooner I get you processed, the sooner we can get you into some rehab facility. Then we can talk about this murder."

Sherlock huffed. This man was being insufferable. His body hurt too much to be able to protest about going to rehab.

"My team is still out there collecting evidence from this alley. If you tell me who you are, then I'll tell them where to look. You wouldn't want the murderer to get away, would you?"

"Wrong, Inspector," Sherlock gasped. "You wouldn't want them to get away."

"True, but without your input my team may accidentally continue to overlook evidence that could solidify a conviction in court."

The need for cocaine was becoming overwhelming, and Sherlock realized that the sooner he cooperated with this man, the sooner he could get some more into his system.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he moaned. "I live in a building down the street from your crime scene."

The Detective Inspector didn't say anything. Instead, Sherlock heard him walking away, though he couldn't understand why, since he wasn't in jail so no one would be able to officially enter him into the system there. The Detective Inspector came back with a recording device, some food, and a bottle of water for Sherlock.

"You look like you haven't seen food in months," he said with a shrug. "Now tell me what you saw in the alley that made you think that our victim was the victim of murder rather than an accident."

Sherlock began to recount details of what he had seen at the crime scene to the mean. He occasionally punctuated his deductions with a sip of water or a small nibble from a bland cracker. The Detective Inspector watched in awe, and he made notes on a napkin in addition to recording what Sherlock had to say about the scene. Once Sherlock was done, the man shook his head and said, "I need to give the other DI who took over the scene a call. Make sure they get all of that before they start wrapping things up, you know." He turned and left the room for several minutes, and Sherlock closed his eyes for a few minutes, squeezing them in pain and breathing harshly through his teeth.

"Easy," the DI said as he reentered Sherlock's hospital room, his face etched with concern. "You're alright. It's just going to be a bit of a bear coming off of the drugs."

"I want to be discharged," Sherlock moaned.

The Detective Inspector laughed harshly. "What, so you can go and pump yourself full of more cocaine? Not likely. I have a proposal for you."

"I am not going to rehab," Sherlock snarled.

"Perhaps not," the man said thoughtfully. "I do have your name now, and I know what street you live on. I could easily find your apartment and search it for drugs. I would be well within my rights to do so as well because you came onto police property higher than anyone I've ever seen before and we have a lot of your blood that proves just how much cocaine you'd ingested before then. We can also test your hair and your urine for more long term evidence. You would be charged for trespassing on a crime scene, but possession of such a powerful, not to mention illegal, narcotic would get you a few years at the very least, but that all depends on just how much you have at your place. There is another option." He waited for Sherlock to look him in the eyes and took that as permission to go on. "You could come consult for Scotland Yard. We could use someone like you, and if you're this good after an overdose God only knows how good you'll be when you're sober. You wouldn't have to worry about any charges. Just go to rehab, get clean, and when you get back I promise you that I'll have cases for you to help with."

Sherlock lay still for a moment considering his options. The Detective Inspector seemed unperturbed by this and didn't mind waiting a bit. When Sherlock finally spoke, he said, "I guess I don't really have a choice in the matter."

"Of course you do," the man replied. "Your life will either be considerably better or worse depending on which option you choose. Either way you'll be sober, but if you decide not to work for me you'll be getting sober in prison, which won't be at all comfortable."

"Detoxing won't be comfortable at all," Sherlock grumbled.

"Should have thought of that before you decided to get addicted to bloody cocaine," the man said genially. Sherlock almost wanted to punch him for that, but adding an assault charge, particularly assaulting a police officer, probably wouldn't bode well for his situation.

"Very well," Sherlock sighed. "Bring me a nurse or whoever I need to speak to in order to sign myself over to a rehabilitation facility."

The officer stood up and walked out, hunting down Sherlock's doctor, who brought in some forms for him to sign. Sherlock begrudgingly signed them, and the doctor left to have someone arrange for him to be transported to a facility as soon as he was stable enough to be transported.

"I didn't ever learn who you were," Sherlock said to the officer as soon as they were alone.

"Me? Oh. Lestrade. Gr-"

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the voice in the door. Of course his brother would find him here.

"Gregory," Mycroft continued, placing a quick kiss on the Lestrade's lips. "Thank you for calling me. I believe I have figured out a way to get Sherlock into rehab. Sherlock, our parents have been relisted as your legal guardians as you are clearly too unstable to take care of yourself. They are on their way now and will be checking you into a very discreet facility near their house."

Sherlock was still a bit stunned by what he had seen his brother doing with the officer, and for once he didn't have anything to say to his brother. Perhaps that was just the cocaine wearing off though.

"Love, he's already agreed to go to one," Lestrade said to Mycroft. "I'll tell you at home. Just don't pester him now."

Mycroft's eyebrow gave a slight twitch, betraying just a hint of surprise on his part, but he just said, "Very well."

"So sorry, brother dear, but I believe I've missed something," Sherlock said with a wince from the bed.

"Right," Lestrade answered. "I'm your brother's fiancé. I called him when you told me your name."

"My brother doesn't have a _fiancé_," Sherlock sneered. "This deal is off."

"Are you sure, Sherlock," Lestrade asked in a tone that was annoyingly patronizing. "You know the alternative. Don't let whatever is going on between you and Mycroft stop you from getting better."

Caught between wanting to spite his brother and not wanting to go to jail, Sherlock shut his mouth. "Fine," he grumbled. "Get out of my sight."

Lestrade began to walk out, but Mycroft remained. When the man turned around to him, he said, "I'll be just a moment. I'll meet you at the car." Lestrade nodded and left.

Mycroft sat in the chair that Lestrade had occupied just a few minutes before. Sherlock turned his head away so he wouldn't have to look at his brother.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Sherlock," Mycroft said gently. "I was just so worried about you after what happened with Vi-"

"Don't say his name," Sherlock said hoarsely. "Just don't."

"Fine."

The fell back into an uncomfortable silence with only the steady beeping from Sherlock's monitors breaking it. Sherlock knew that Mycroft wouldn't leave until he said what he had gone there to say, but he didn't want to give his brother the satisfaction of him having asked him why he was there and giving him permission to speak openly.

"You will be better, Sherlock." Mycroft spoke softly. "Please don't waste the gifts that you've been given. I will look out for you, and Gregory will ensure that you have cases that will keep your mind occupied. When you're out of rehab we can talk about setting up a private investigation business for you for when the cases aren't as plentiful."

"That isn't going to be enough, Mycroft," Sherlock said, ashamed and somewhat surprised at how thick his voice was.

"Then we'll find you something else. I'll look into some options and will do it discreetly enough that it won't damage your pride to consider some of them." When Sherlock didn't reply, Mycroft said, "Gregory is waiting for me and there are people from a facility near Mummy and Father that will be transporting you to your temporary residence. I'll come see you as often as I can. Be well, little brother."

Mycroft walked out with a nod to two men in scrubs waiting in the doorway.

"Mr. Holmes?' The larger of the two was holding some of Sherlock's clothes. "Let's get you dressed and then we can discharge you."

Sherlock struggled upright with the help of the other man, and between the three of them he got dressed and was put into an unremarkable car. With the promise of cases and things to keep his mind from rebelling as well as the fear of the worst of the detox process, Sherlock tipped his head against the cool glass of the window and fell into a restless sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

John knew that keeping his gun in the drawer next to his bed was a stupid idea, but he didn't care. If any one of his patients had come in to see him and they mentioned that they were keeping a gun next to their bed, John would have done whatever he could to make sure they moved it. He probably would have been more aggressive than that, if he was being perfectly honest with himself. He would do what he could to ensure that his patient got rid of the gun altogether. Knowing this, John was able to consider just what he should and shouldn't say to his therapist.

He knew that Ella thought he was full of shit, but she was too professional to be able to call him out on it. All she could do was attempt to steer him in the right direction so he would open up just a bit more. He knew all she wanted to do was help, but there was nothing she could do and John hated the woman for that.

_Still has trust issues._ Of course John had trust issues. She would never know why he had trust issues, but he did. John wasn't in love with Major Sholto anymore. He had spent many weeks in a morphine haze after he was flown home, and through this whole haze he had cried. There were days that tears were leaking out of his eyes because he was in pain, and there were days where it was because his heart was breaking. He never cried with any noise, though. Each sob was marked with a silent hitch in his chest that could have easily been mistaken for a quick breath. It had taken two months, but soon John no longer thought of Sholto. To be fair, he didn't think of anyone, but he was no longer heartbroken and angrier with the man than anything else for how things had gone. He then was angry at himself for being angry because they _had_ agreed on just casual sex, but Sholto didn't have to be so accommodating to John after his panic attack and miniature sexuality crisis. He was angry only very rarely, and that was awful, but it was better than numb.

Harry came to visit him once, but he had become so distressed that his blood pressure had spiked and his stitches had ruptured. He had ended up back in surgery. Harry had been drunk and shouldn't have been allowed in the hospital in the first place. She was forbidden by the hospital staff from visiting him again while he was there because of how badly her first and only visit had gone. She sent John the phone that Clara had gotten for her on her last birthday. She wrote in the note that she and Clara were splitting up and that she hoped that John would be in touch.

John spent five months in a military hospital recovering from his injuries. The doctors and physical therapists were baffled by his inability to walk because there was no injury there. John was just frustrated by the fact that his shoulder was at least improving while his leg, which had nothing wrong with it, was still lame. Eventually they discharged him from the hospital, and the Army gave him an honorable discharge because though they appreciated his service, there was no use for a broken surgeon anywhere in Afghanistan.

With a heavy heart, John found a cheap bedsit and ambled around London, hoping that some part of the city would blow a little bit of life into him. It was on the day that Ella had written _still has trust issues_ on her notepad that John was limping through the park when a voice that registered as distantly familiar in his head called his name.

Mike Stamford couldn't have known that John had gotten shot, but he _was_ walking around with a cane. He hadn't had that when they were in medical school or at any other point where they had seen each other after they had wrapped up there. They had gotten coffee, giving them an excuse to have an extended conversation with each other. Then Mike had mentioned a flatmate and John couldn't help it. His curiosity – and the desire to go anywhere other than London – got the better of him and he asked Mike a question he hoped he wouldn't regret later.

"Who was the first?"

Mike laughed as if he had some great secret, then he brought John back to the hospital where they had studied together and where Mike – and this potential flatmate – now worked. Instead of heading to an office, as John suspected they would, Mike brought him to a lab.

The lab was fairly dark when John and Mike entered it. Mike had mentioned that the person he was about to introduce him to was a bit eccentric with his work and was working on an experiment that worked with the reaction of different light sources with acrylic paint. He had asked that all overhead power sources be cut off of to that particular lab while he was conducting this experiment, so the only source of light was from small lamps that cast different hues around the room. The man asked for Mike's phone, and when that wasn't available, John offered his. The man thanked him and reached out for the phone.

When the man made eye contact with John as the phone was placed in his hand, his eyes widened and then shut as if he were in pain. "Are you alright?" John asked, his medical background getting the better of him.

The man scrubbed his eyes and squinted at John, almost confused. "Yes," he said, almost puzzled. Then recognition seemed to strike him and he squinted at the screen as if the light was painful for him. He rattled off some information about John that no one other than his doctors should have known. But at the end of it all Mike had just looked at John and shook his head in an almost affectionate way.

_Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street_. The name and address danced through John's mind all afternoon and night. He looked up the man to ensure that he wasn't contemplating moving in with a serial killer or some other crazed lunatic. After looking at Sherlock Holmes's website, he was fairly certain that the man wasn't a serial killer, but based on the posts there and the text that the man had sent from John's phone he was reasonably convinced that his potential flatmate wasn't entirely sane. John also reflected on what Sherlock Holmes had said to him when they had first been introduced about his worst qualities. If the man was a good violin player, John wouldn't mind him playing. He may mind if it was the middle of the night, but the violin could also help him after a nightmare. As for the not talking for days on end, well. John had gotten into that habit himself. He didn't speak outside of therapy, and his conversation with Mike had been the most extensive interaction he had had with another person in a very long time.

When John got into bed, he was prepared for two things. The first was a restless night filled with nightmares that would jolt him awake and leave him hoarse from screaming and crying in a mixture of shame and fear after. The second was that he was probably going to decide to move into a flat with a complete stranger who was probably a bit of a lunatic.

* * *

Sherlock's experiment had gone very well. The paint chips hadn't had any excessive interference from a light source other than the one assigned to that particular piece of green. He was confident that within half an hour he would be able to text Lestrade and confirm who the killer was.

Lestrade came over to his flat nearly every day. Sherlock very nearly resented this, because Sherlock hated the idea of having a minder. Still, relapse was something that his brother was concerned about and Lestrade was terrified about. He and Mycroft lived in a flat that was situated so Sherlock's was on both of their routes to work, so every morning one of them (more often than not Lestrade) would pop in to see how Sherlock was doing. If Sherlock was clearly in danger of relapsing (or clearly hiding the fact that he was in danger of relapsing), Lestrade would bring him into work and dig out a cold case for him. Sherlock had been clean for five years when he met John.

He had been thinking about the coffee that Molly had promised him when the door swung open and two people came into the lab. He recognized the gait of the first man as that of Mike Stamford, but he didn't recognized the second one. Mike must have found him a flatmate.

The flatmate offered him the use of his phone, and it happened when the man placed the phone in his hand and Sherlock looked up into his eyes.

He had heard tales of people being temporarily blinded when they met their soul mate. Sherlock supposed this would have happened if he hadn't made the lab as dark as possible. He blinked a few times and had to squint. Still, he knew what was happening. The man stood in front of him – _army doctor, went to school with Mike, discharged recently because of a gunshot wound to his left shoulder, psychosomatic limp, alcoholic brother going through a divorce_ – was unquestionably his soul mate, and he was not reacting.

He waltzed out of the lab looking for his riding crop, and all the while his heart was sinking. He should be rejoicing because he could see color, but instead he was agonizing because the man who was clearly his soul mate obviously couldn't see color when they looked at each other. As he fetched his riding crop, Sherlock had an idea. Instead of heading for his flat, he went to King's Cross and caught the next train going to the station closet to the village his parents lived in.

His mother was thrilled when he called her and told her that he was at the train station. She fussed over the fact that he didn't give her any warning, but said she would send his father along and she would work on preparing some food for him. Sherlock didn't mention that he had eaten only two days ago and didn't need the sustenance. His parents were the only two people he would eat for.

His father embraced him when he pulled up at the station. "Didn't even bring a change of clothes, Sherlock, good Lord," the man fretted. "Not to worry, we have some things here for you."

"I'm only down for the evening," Sherlock tried to say, but the look his father gave him was severe.

"If you think your mother is going to let you ride a train back late into town, you're dimmer than we all thought you were. Tell me a bit about the cases you've been working on. When your mother last spoke to Mycroft he said you were helping Greg with something to do with a corpse secured to a ceiling or something like that." Sherlock grinned and began to talk about what he had solved earlier. His father was nowhere near as bright as the rest of the family, but he was genuinely interested in what his sons were doing. If he didn't understand how Sherlock had reached a conclusion he was more than willing to ask about it, but he also knew how much this annoyed Sherlock and did his best to keep the questions to a minimum. By the time Sherlock had told him about the case and the arrest that Greg had made while he was on the train, they were pulling up to the house where Sherlock and Mycroft had grown up.

Mummy dashed out when she heard the car pull up and pulled her younger child into a tight embrace. Sherlock accepted the gesture, knowing that there was nothing that he could do to stop her.

"You haven't been eating again, have you love?" Mummy asked as she pulled back and looked at him. "Don't even try to dignify that with a lie, Sherlock. I made lamb for dinner and there are some potatoes in the oven right now. You're eating two helpings of everything on the table, young man."

The table was set and everything was ready to eat when they went inside. They sat and began to eat. Mummy ate slowly, keeping a watchful eye on Sherlock to ensure that he ate like a normal person. After he had started on his prescribed second plate, Father asked him what brought him out to the country on such short notice.

"I need some advice." Sherlock mumbled these words towards his plate so he didn't have to see whatever expressions his parents wore.

"What is it, love?" Mummy asked.

"I want to move out of my current flat and into a new one, but it's out of my budget so I started looking for a flatmate. I mentioned this to a doctor who I sometimes work with at St. Bart's earlier today, and not two hours later he brings someone in who he knew while they were at school." He stopped, trying to think of a good way to say this, but when he failed Sherlock just blurted out, "When we made eye contact I started seeing color but he made no indication of showing a change. He's definitely my soul mate, but he's color blind."

Neither of his parents said anything. They looked at each other, and Father, who was always the more emotional one of the pair, had eyes that were just a bit wet. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock," he said thickly. "I don't understand why this whole business of soul mates has never been easy for you."

"I don't either. I don't even know if I like him. He's said only a few words to me, and I was so flustered by seeing color and him not being able to see it that I began saying whatever I thought and I think I scared him a bit. Apparently not too much though because he's going to Baker Street look at the flat with me tomorrow evening."

"How did he not notice that you were seeing color?" Mummy asked. "Most people can't open their eyes when the change happens."

"I was in a lab with very little light," Sherlock explained. "It hurt a bit and I'm certain that I was squinting a little bit because he asked if my eyes were alright, but I didn't want to scare him away by saying that I had started seeing color when he looked at me when he clearly wasn't."

"That's a wise choice," his father agreed.

"But what am I supposed to do?" Sherlock moaned. "I don't want something to happen to him. What if he decides that I'm too difficult to live with and he just leaves without knowing that it's me? What if he tries to find someone else but gets frustrated because he can't find the person he's looking for? What if I hide it for too long and gets angry because I kept something so important a secret from him and then he leaves?" Sherlock was pulling at his hair by the end of his rant and his eyes were darting wildly from one parent to the other.

"Sherlock," Mummy sighed. "You're right not to tell him, but you never know. The two of you may start to live together and realize that you're one of those matches that aren't meant to be. I know you haven't seen many of those, but there are some people whose soul mates are incompatible with them for some odd reason or another. I know that you're impulsive and Lord knows I would never try to change that about you sweetheart, but unfortunately this is just one of those situations where you have to wait a little while to see any results."

"She's right," his father agreed. "I know that I don't want you to get hurt again, and after last time I'm more inclined to tell you to take things slowly. Get to know the man, and when you feel the time is right, tell him."

"How am I supposed to know when that is?" Sherlock asked.

His father shrugged and looked between his wife and his son. "You're the smart ones here. You two figure it out."

Sherlock wasn't completely satisfied with the answers he got from his parents (or lack of answers, depending on how you looked at it), but he felt better the next morning when he returned to London with a bag full of home cooked food from his mother to put in the refrigerator that was on the second floor of 221B Baker Street.

**A/N: Hey y'all! This is the first chapter with switching points of view, which is incidentally the first one that I considered splitting into two parts. The chapter count is at 16 right now, but that could change depending on how I'm feeling on a day-to-day basis. Thanks so much for all of the kind support I've been getting for this story! It was one of those things that was easy to outline but a bear to finish. Now that I'm finally putting it up, I'm thrilled y'all are liking it! Please keep the feedback coming! It warms my heart each time I hear from one of you! xoxoxo**


	11. Chapter 11

Greg was confused by Sherlock's taking a flatmate, but he said absolutely nothing to deter the man when he mentioned it around lunchtime when he called Sherlock into Scotland Yard to give a statement about the case with the woman who had been put on the ceiling using at least seven different adhesive devices by the younger brother who owned a green ladder. He was thrilled that his brother-in-law was branching out. The man had never been a particularly social creature, and in the five years that Greg had known him he had no recollection of Sherlock having any relationships outside of family and work. He had to work incredibly hard to get Sherlock to accept his presence in his life. Mycroft had told Greg what happened while Sherlock was at university after Greg met his parents but not his younger brother. The story had filled Greg with rage. He had looked up Victor Trevor and Sebastian Wilkes to see if there was any dirt that he could use against either one of them, but their records were – rather unfortunately – squeaky clean.

He couldn't get any information out of Sherlock other than the fact that the man was a doctor who had been discharged from the army because of an injury he sustained while he was in Afghanistan. Greg knew that Sherlock had deduced much more than that from the few minutes they had spent together, but he didn't press because he knew that would agitate Sherlock. Greg had made a point to ask the man's name, and though Sherlock suspected what he was going to do with that information and clearly didn't like the prospect of his brother-in-law looking the man up (which would inevitably lead to Mycroft looking the man up), he gave it to him anyways.

Greg found nothing on John Watson. He had lived a fairly vanilla life if you didn't count the fact that he enlisted in the Army and did three tours of duty in Afghanistan. He had no criminal record whatsoever. No drunken or disorderly conduct, no drug use, not even shoplifting as a kid. John Watson had one of the cleanest records that Greg had ever seen. Not totally fooled, he picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number.

"Gregory, love." Mycroft's voice was cooling and Greg felt considerably less stressed by just hearing the man's voice.

"I need a favor," Greg said without any prompting.

Mycroft chuckled. "Darling, you know that abusing our relationship could get both of us in trouble."

"Hush," Greg whispered playfully into the phone. "It isn't for me. Let's just say I'm giving you a head start on something that you'll be dealing with most likely within the next few hours. I need you to look up whatever you can on John Watson."

"A rather common name, Gregory. Do you have any other qualifiers for me?" Greg could hear the phone shift so it was being cradled between Mycroft's ear and shoulder, then the unmistakable sound of rapid typing followed.

"Army doctor, fresh out of Afghanistan," Greg said simply. "I'll let you figure out why you need this guy, but his criminal record over here is completely clean. If there was anything, I know you would have it."

"Indeed," Mycroft said thoughtfully. The typing paused and Greg knew that this was his cue to get off of the phone. If there was something classified in John Watson's file and Mycroft so much as hinted at something more there, both he and Greg could be in serious trouble – Greg for hearing whatever was so secret and Mycroft for betraying that there was a secret.

"I'll leave you to it, then," Greg sighed. "I'll see you tonight, love."

"Until later, Gregory." The line went dead, and Greg hung up with a sigh. He had a feeling that, with a record as clean as his was John Watson would not be a threat to Sherlock's safety. It was the way that the man had spoken about his potential flatmate that had worried Greg. He had sounded… Greg wished that there was another word for it, but _enchanted_ was what came to mind. He shook his head. John Watson was nothing more than another puzzle for Sherlock to solve. Perhaps there was something about the fact that the man was a trained healer who made his living in a profession known mostly for protecting British citizens during times of violent conflict that intrigued his brother-in-law. He didn't have much time to reflect on what could have caused Sherlock to act this way because Sally Donovan shook him out of his reverie by knocking on the doorframe leading into his office.

"Another one of those suicides, sir," she sighed, exasperated. "Lauriston Gardens, this time."

The fourth of its kind, Greg shook his head. Serial suicides were almost worse than a serial killer because there were no clues left behind and no obvious motivator behind why these people were killing themselves. He headed to the crime scene, but it was soon obvious that he needed Sherlock's help. He was loathe to break up the meeting between the two men, but things were getting out of hand and his team was getting nowhere. He left a few officers in charge and then drove over to Baker Street, where Sherlock and John Watson were talking in the sitting area of the flat.

He hadn't expected John to go along with Sherlock. There was no doubt that the man had a bad case of PTSD, the way that he jumped at the slightest noises and the way that he paled a bit at seeing a dead body. Greg had to give him credit though – he clenched his jaw and gripped his cane a bit tighter, then he moved towards the body when Sherlock asked, his only hesitation being when he deferred to Greg to see if it was okay for him to take a look at the woman who was dressed completely in pink.

Greg felt a bit sorry for John when Sherlock took off after some revelation involving the color pink that no one else understood. He knew that Mycroft knew what was going on, but he fired off a quick text telling him just where John Watson would be headed in case he wanted to pick the man up for a quick chat about Sherlock.

The first thing that Mycroft noticed about John Watson was that he was small. Not just in height, but everything else about him seemed small. The man was so traumatized by being sent home from the war (not from the war, like everyone around him thought) that he had curled in upon himself and now the man's very presence was tiny. Mycroft was sure that it had been much larger when he was an active member of the military with a purpose in his life. That suspicion was confirmed the more that Mycroft spoke with the man. He wasn't backing down from Mycroft, which was a rather impressive feat. Between the setting of their meeting, the manner that Dr. Watson was brought there, and Mycroft's general demeanor, the man should have been terrified. Instead, he refused the offer of much needed funds that Mycroft had tried to make and he challenged almost everything that Mycroft had said to him.

As he reentered the car and drove away, Mycroft dialed his partner's number. "My dear," he drawled, concentrating on the umbrella in his hand. "I believe that Sherlock has struck gold."

Planning the drugs bust was simple. The part that made him cringe was the worry on Mrs. Hudson's face, the shock on John's, and (most of all) the shame on Sherlock's. Perhaps it was just because Sherlock hadn't had many acquaintances in his life, but he seemed to be cottoning on to John Watson very quickly as if he were afraid of losing the man. Greg was going to pull Sherlock to the side once everyone had cleared out, but he didn't get a chance to do that because the idiot darted off and got into a cab with a serial killer. That wasn't anything unusual. What was unusual was the way that Sherlock was shielding his eyes from the bright flashing lights of the sirens.

"That's the problem with being new to seeing color," he said casually, sitting down next to Sherlock at the back of the ambulance. "New stimuli can be a bit overwhelming."

"I'm not seeing color, Lestrade," Sherlock sighed, clearly put out that he had to wear the shock blanket when he definitely wasn't in shock.

"I've known you for five years, Sherlock Holmes. Don't think you can lie to me." Sherlock had nothing to say to that. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"He's color blind," Sherlock mumbled. "He doesn't know."

Greg's stomach clenched. Of all of the people to have unnecessary rotten luck with color blindness, Sherlock was the last person who needed it. What Victor had done to Sherlock made his blood boil. Greg was the oldest of seven and he was protective of anyone who needed a little bit of help around him. Ever since he had met Sherlock Greg had felt a sense of kinship towards him. Even before the man had woken up and told Greg his name, he was planning on making the offer of rehab or prison to the young junkie. Knowing that Sherlock had finally found his soul mate and the man wasn't able to tell that it was him made Greg want to hug the younger man and not let go for a long time.

Instead of grabbing him, Greg patted Sherlock's knee and stood up. "Well you'd better start proving it to him, hadn't you?"

Sherlock gaped up at him. "But I have to find your killer."

"Sod that." Greg pulled the shock blanket off of Sherlock's shoulders. "Whoever it was killed a serial killer. We can deal with that tomorrow. For now, go make sure he moves in with you and start working your charms on him."

Sherlock stood. "Thank you," he said quietly. Then he looked directly into Greg's eyes and said severely, "Don't tell Mycroft."

"He'll know by looking at you the next time you see him," Greg laughed. "Now go. Your exercise in convincing a color blind man that he's your soul mate begins now." He nodded over to the police line where John Watson was waiting just outside the barrier pretending not to look over at them.

Sherlock's face was uncharacteristically blank when he bounded off to the barrier to see John. Greg smiled at in their direction, then went back to work until he saw a generic black car pull up just outside the barrier and a little ways away from where Sherlock and John were standing.

John Watson was confused. Mycroft could see the concern etched in the man's face. He smiled very slightly at the man in a way that was meant to be somewhat frightening and off-putting for the smaller man. Sherlock obviously hadn't told John who Mycroft was so he was left to wonder why his new flatmate was so casually speaking with someone Sherlock named as his arch-enemy. It was worth it to see the surprise on John's face when Sherlock identified him as his brother.

There was something different about his brother though. A change had taken place that Mycroft knew about from experience. The first time he had stepped out into the sunlight after being able to see color he had to turn around and walk back into the building. As stupid as he would look, he had to holler for someone to bring him some sunglasses so his eyes didn't feel like they were going to burn out of his head. It took him some time to get used to the sun. Sherlock was lucky that the day had been so disgustingly overcast, but that luck ran out when he had to surround himself with emergency vehicles that all had their sirens flashing.

He gave Sherlock a small but significant smile. _Well done, little brother_, it said. _Well done indeed._

Greg meandered over to when Sherlock and John were speaking with Mycroft. His partner spotted him as he ducked under the police tape and he offered a smile to the man.

"Hello," Greg said genially. "Everything alright over here? These two have a tendency to snipe endlessly at each other when they're left with someone who isn't experienced in supervising a Holmes brother. I swear, they act like they're six," he said to John with a sideways glance at Mycroft and a wink at him. "I see you've met my _soul mate_-" Sherlock shot him a glare when he emphasized those two words "-and Sherlock's older brother. Tell me, did he try to bribe you earlier? Get you to spy on Sherlock for some exorbitant sum of money?"

"Dr. Watson didn't even want to hear the offer, my dear," Mycroft drawled.

"Idiot. We could have split the fee," Sherlock growled, clearly frustrated with the lack of extra income that he would no doubt blow on items that would make their flat almost inhabitable.

"Oh brother dear," Mycroft said with a twirl of his umbrella. "You know that all you need to do is ask if you want more formaldehyde."

"I don't need your help!" Sherlock spat. "John and I are going to get dinner. Lestrade, I'll text you in the morning about the shooter. Mycroft, do try not to start any wars before I get home. You know what it does for traffic." With a flourish of that great, dramatic coat he so loved, Sherlock was off down the street at a fairly brisk pace.

When John made to move after him, Greg called out, "Dr. Watson, wait."

"John, please," the man said with a friendly smile.

"Of course." Greg reached into the breast pocket of Mycroft's jacket and pulled out a pen and a little notebook. Mycroft gave a dignified huff at the action. Greg scribbled his number down on a sheet of notebook paper and thrust it at the man. "In case you need a pint. He's my family and I love him, but you're going to need a breather every so often from that lanky git."

John pocketed the number with a smile. "I'll do that, thanks."

"Be prepared for me to call you when I need a respite from this one," he added as he replaced the items in Mycroft's pocket and patted him on his pectoral once they were snug in his jacket once again.

"I'll keep it in mind. It was a pleasure meeting you both. I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot more of each other." John then turned and jogged off to Sherlock, who was waiting anxiously a little ways down the sidewalk past the crowd of curious bystanders who had gathered around the scene.

"Do you often need a break from me?" Mycroft asked, wrapping his arm around Greg's waist.

"Nah, just when you're being a bit of a twat," Greg replied with a smile, leaning his head on Mycroft's shoulder and threading an arm through Mycroft's. "Think they'll be alright?"

"I shouldn't have any confidence in Sherlock when it comes to matters of the human heart, but I have a strange feeling that he'll manage to convince the good doctor that they're meant to be together."

"You soppy thing," Greg said as he pressed a kiss to Mycroft's neck. "Careful not to say that within earshot of him. He may actually think you care about him."

"I'll be certain to exercise caution in the future when dealing with such matters."

The stood like that for another minute before Greg pulled away with a reluctant sigh. "I've got to get back. It looks like this was our serial suicide guy, and we really have nothing to go on with whoever shot him. Between finding the shooter and the paperwork from the dead killer, I'm most likely not going to make it home tonight."

"I figured. I came over here with the intent of seeing you and not vexing my brother or scaring his other half. That was just an added perk." He kissed Greg quickly and as he climbed back into his car he called out, "Don't be home too late tomorrow. You're an absolute bear when you don't sleep and I would hate for you to take it out on your team."

"Dick," Greg said fondly. With that, he turned and returned to the crime scene thinking of how lucky he was and how much he hoped that Sherlock would be able to convince John that he saw color because that man walked into the room.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock liked fine things. He liked the feeling of silk against his skin and Egyptian cotton when he slept. His amenities in the bathroom were all designed for maximum comfort and his room was sparse and neat in order to give his mind a break when it was moving too quickly. Sherlock lived a fairly comfortable life, so when he began to see color when John entered his life he felt as if the axis that the earth was spinning on had shifted enough to make him feel as if he was going to fall off the edge of something.

In addition to being comfortable, Sherlock was generally used to getting his way. His parents hadn't spoiled them when he and Mycroft were growing up, but Sherlock had enough financial freedom from the monthly payments from his trust fund to allow him to eat what he wanted, wear what he wanted, and buy what he needed to conduct somewhat dangerous experiments in the comfort of his own home. The move to Baker Street had been a welcome change, but in order to continue living the way he did Sherlock needed to split the rent with someone. That was where John came in.

John's inability to see color as well as his total ignorance of the fact – _Read: no close relatives exhibiting the trait for color blindness. Must have been in generations in the distant past or a well-kept family secret. Most likely the former based on John's openness about his sister's alcoholism, though that may have come about just because Sherlock was prying._ – threw a wrench in Sherlock's comfortable existence as well as his somewhat entitled lifestyle. He had never expected to find a soul mate. Unlike his brother, who was a closeted disgusting romantic, he had always believed that he was too abrasive and too strange to have a match. The debacle with Victor had been the final nail in the coffin of Sherlock's hopes of having a soul mate. Some people were meant to be unmatched, and he assumed he was one of the unlucky few. He was never affected by it. It was never something that he had expected to have, so he didn't think about it. That though had fit comfortably in the persona that he had built for himself, and now that he knew he had a soul mate he was almost upset because it meant he would have to completely rethink who he was. He would have to adjust who he was to fit John into the picture.

With a sigh, Sherlock pushed that thought to the side and shook himself out of the funk he had worked himself into. John had no idea that he had a soul mate which meant that Sherlock had time to think over things and prepare himself for how his life was about to change.

John had gone to the store because there was nothing but a severed hand in the refrigerator. Sherlock had found off some mystery assailant. John had come back from the store and Sherlock had given the man his card to do the shopping because Sherlock could afford to do so and John was living off of an army pension while he looked for a job. It struck Sherlock that this was strangely domestic of them. They had settled into a routine quite quickly after they had gone running after a serial killer together.

While waiting for John to return, he pressed his fingers together and rested them against his face. John was an enigma. He made no sense. Perhaps that was part of this business of being Sherlock's soul mate. He shouldn't have belonged, but somehow he had slid right into Sherlock's routine and he fit perfectly. He fit comfortably, which was something Sherlock didn't know could happen with other people.

John was unable to resist the adrenaline rush that took over whenever he and Sherlock were on a case. No one around Sherlock (other than Lestrade, although that was his job so he didn't really count) had understood his desire to run around London like a madman. Sherlock liked the stimulation to his brain, which was always welcome. John was intelligent yet an idiot at the same time. He didn't see the things that Sherlock saw, but he liked when a case gave them results. If anything, John enjoyed the part where they served justice more than actually figuring out who the guilty party was.

It made sense. John was a moral man. His morality had some interesting minutiae that might cause some people to think that he was a bad man. For example, killing the cabbie could have been a point in favor of calling John an immoral man. Of course, Sherlock didn't see it like that. Besides, he was more concerned that John Watson had shot and killed a man and then couldn't verbalize why he did it.

"I don't know," John had said with a shrug as they walked to the Chinese restaurant. "I didn't want you to die. You were going to take that pill, which I think makes _you_ the idiot out of the two of us. But there was something else." His face scrunched up and he shook his head. "I can't even describe it properly. Just to be clear, I don't think you're some regency heroine who needs protection from everything, but I felt this overwhelming feeling of needing to protect you. It was necessary. There was no other option."

The walked in silence for a half block, contemplating that answer and what it meant, when Sherlock said, "Regency heroine," he said thoughtfully. "I've been describe as many things, most of them not very nice, but I can honestly say that I've never been compared to a regency heroine."

"I didn't say you _were_ one," John huffed.

"Of course not," Sherlock quickly amended. "Nevertheless, the connection was made. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant thing, even though I was being contrasted rather than compared to a genre of weak and wilting characters."

"Not all of them were weak," John said placidly. When Sherlock looked at him with an eyebrow cocked, he shrugged and said, "Harry's a big fan. One summer I picked one up out of curiosity and ended up reading every piece of classic literature she owned. She was thrilled. I mostly did it for pointers on how to treat women, and I figured I could get into some knickers by having conversations about _Jane Eyre_."

Sherlock's heart sank. "So you're… exclusively into women?" If John answered yes, convincing the man that he was his soul mate would be even tougher.

John pursed his lips, but he shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it. He broke my heart."

Sherlock desperately wanted to ask about this man, but he didn't press the issue. He would get John to talk in good time.

As they ate, Sherlock studied John closely. He was too thin and tried to cover it up with baggy jumpers. Sherlock had read something on trauma-induced eating disorders once. John had obviously been through serious trauma with his injury. Combine that with his PTSD and depression that came from feeling listless because he had been robbed of his purpose in life, and that could start (or trigger, though he didn't get the impression that John had suffered from an eating disorder in the past) a bad habit of not eating. He would have to find that in his mind palace when they got home.

Instead of asking if John had been eating recently – because that would be hypocritical and John would most likely be nagging Sherlock about that in a few days – he decided to say, "Well, I told you the worst things about living with me. I think it's your turn."

John froze like a deer in headlights. "Oh. I guess that's fair." He set down his fork and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. "I have nightmares. About the war. Sometimes I yell while I'm having one. If that happens and it's disturbing you, just stand in my doorway and call my name until I wake up. If you come too close, I may wake up and think you're a Taliban insurgent or something like that. I don't want to hit you, or worse, shoot you because I feel that threatened."

"I see," Sherlock frowned. "Should we keep your gun in the sitting area?"

John looked surprised. "You aren't at all disturbed by the fact that I'm going to be keeping an illegal firearm in the flat?"

Sherlock flapped his hand. "It isn't like I didn't know you had one. I would just prefer not to get shot if I'm trying to wake you up."

"In that case, yeah, let's do that," John agreed.

They sat in silence for a little while, and then John asked, "Do you mind if I write about you on my blog? My therapist suggested that I write things down, and she wanted to hold me accountable so she made me start a blog. I won't say much. I just want her to know what's happening with me this week so she'll stop badgering me about my feelings."

"That would be fine. It isn't like anyone is going to want to read about your feelings," Sherlock said with a shrug. He realized that probably wasn't a good thing to say, but John just laughed. An actual, genuine laugh, not just a little chuckle. It made Sherlock feel warm inside.

John had moved in the next day. It took him one cab ride to bring all of his things to their flat, which Sherlock found insane. He just shrugged when Sherlock mentioned this and said, "Not much point in having things when you just have to leave them behind every time you go overseas."

That made Sherlock inexplicably melancholy and he spent the rest of the day crouched on his chair thinking about things he could get John so his room wouldn't be so spartan. In the end he decided to let the matter rest. If John needed things, he could get them when he could afford them.

The subject of soul mates came up surprisingly early on in their friendship. They were sitting in their chairs in front of a fire and drinking scotch. Neither of them were drunk, but Sherlock's veins felt warm and his limbs felt loose. John's tongue was a bit loose, and he asked, "I'm a little confused by Lestrade's relationship with your brother. They just seem like they're unlikely soul mates. Your brother is a scary motherfucker, and Lestrade is only scary to criminals that he's chasing."

Sherlock sipped his scotch. "They fit together surprisingly well. They understand that they have insane work schedules, so no one is jealous of the other staying at work too late. Lestrade makes sure that Mycroft eats regularly because he nearly killed himself by not doing that the year before he met Lestrade. Mycroft makes sure that Lestrade sleeps and doesn't smoke. The relationship doesn't make a lot of sense, but they work shockingly well. They're disgustingly in love."

"Sorry, you think love is disgusting?" John asked. "Haven't you ever thought of finding a girl and settling down as much as you could? Don't you think of your soul mate?"

John's gaze seemed to be boring directly into Sherlock's face. Sherlock shook his head. "I used to not think about it, though I doubt I would 'settle down' with a woman. I had an awful experience with someone I loved. I thought he loved me, but it was all a sham. I didn't want to deal with any relationship like that again, but in recent months I've begun to reconsider it."

"You're a handsome bloke, Sherlock, and you're a pretty good friend. Anyone would be lucky to be your soul mate," John said. He patted Sherlock's knee.

_Anyone, John? Does that include you?_

"I think I've had enough to drink tonight. I'm feeling a bit woozy. I'll go to bed."

John looked surprised, but he shook it off quickly. "Yeah, that's probably wise. Make sure to drink some water before you go to bed."

Dutifully, Sherlock filled two glasses and brought one to John. He knew he was being uncharacteristically thoughtful, but his slightly drunk state he felt it was appropriate. He then walked to his room and shut the door. Instead of going to his bed, he sank down along the door and sat on the floor. He needed to analyze his friendship with John Watson more before he let repressed feelings and emotions clutter his mind. Sherlock sat there sipping his water, and once he had finished he crawled over to his bed. Instead of sleeping with two pillows under his head, he hugged one tight to his chest and tried to pretend that he wasn't trying to deduce what John would feel like in bed next to him.

**A/N: Y'all I've been so excited to share this story with everyone that for the last few days I've posted the new chapter just as it hits midnight. I mean, tonight isn't an exception. I guess this is my way of saying thank you for all of your support for this story. I've had so much positive feedback that every day I'm antsy to get the next chapter up and have to resist posting the entire story. Every one of you is fabulous and I love y'all very much. xoxoxo**


	13. Chapter 13

John noticed that Sherlock was becoming distant after their drunken conversation. He tried to figure out what could have set the man off but he was puzzled. Sherlock had mentioned an ex. Perhaps he had accidentally brought back unpleasant memories for Sherlock. He cringed at the thought. John smoothed over his guilt by reminding himself that Sherlock said sometimes he didn't speak for days on end. He was probably just entering one of those phases. Yes. That made sense.

Sherlock was distant the day that John had fought with the chip and pin machine. He felt bad for snapping at the man when he was clearly in some sort of a funk, but he had been using John's laptop. His laptop that was password protected for a reason. Sherlock seemed disturbed when he snapped the laptop shut, but John was almost certain that it was because of whatever he had been looking at rather than John removing the device from his possession.

"We're going to the bank," Sherlock announced as he grabbed his coat from the coat rack. He turned expectantly to John.

"What makes you think I want to go?" John asked.

"You don't have any job interviews for another two days. What else do you have to do today?"

"Fuck you," John said with a smile. Sherlock gave a slightly uncomfortable smile. John cringed a bit. He knew that somehow he had stepped in it all over again. In spite of that, they rode in a fairly comfortable silence to the bank.

"The man you're about to meet will seem quite charming, but he is truly one of the worst people that I've ever met," Sherlock muttered as they made their way over to the elevator.

"Sorry, why are we here, then?" John asked, puzzled.

"We're here so I can prove him wrong," Sherlock answered simply.

"What do you need to prove him wrong about?"

Sherlock paused for a beat when he hit the call button for the elevator. "I have a friend now," he said with a small smile. He tried to make the smile not seem sad, but it didn't work.

"That you do, Sherlock," John said with a genuine smile that dazzled. He patted Sherlock's forearm twice. "That you do."

They stepped onto the elevator. Sherlock hit the button for the floor that they were going to, and as they began to rise, he said, "He is also certain to pay us an exorbitant amount of money."

"Well then, who cares if he's a bit of a tosser," John joked. He thought that Sherlock might be acting a bit dramatic. After all, he had declared that his own brother was his arch-enemy, though it had become apparent to John in the time he had known Sherlock that Mycroft was actually working to protect Sherlock from himself.

He was absolutely mistaken. Sebastian Wilkes was not a tosser as Sherlock had said. He was probably the slimiest man that he had ever met. The way that he strode into the office, the way that he said Sherlock's name, and the way he had looked at John as if he could sense the fact that he was dirt poor irked him beyond belief and John wanted to do nothing but leave that office with Sherlock and never come back, Sherlock's pride and the promised money be damned. There it was again. That feeling of overprotectiveness where he felt the need to stand between Sherlock and Sebastian until the man backed off with his tail in between his legs was strong. He didn't understand it. There was just something about Sherlock that made him want to protect him.

John was jolted back to reality when Sherlock said, "This is my _friend_ John Watson."

Sebastian turned to John with surprise in his eyes and stuck out his hand. John gripped it tightly. "Friend?" Sebastian asked, his tone clearly conveying the fact that he thought that John was much more than a friend to Sherlock.

"Yes, friend," John said sternly. He couldn't be sure, but out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Sherlock deflate a bit. Why would that be? He had wanted to prove to Sebastian that he had friends – well, friend – now. Wasn't that what he wanted? John shook his head slightly as he sat down. He would never understand that infuriating man.

"Right," Sebastian said, clearly not changing how he perceived them. He walked around his desk and sat down. "I told Victor that I was seeing you today. He sends his regards. He's doing _Hamlet_ in the West End at the moment. Part of that thanks to you, buddy."

Sherlock visibly stiffened at that. John desperately wanted to ask him what the matter was. He soon got his answer though when Sebastian said, "We all hated him." Sherlock's head visibly dipped at this point.

"I think what he does is brilliant," John said calmly. He crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. He laced his fingers together in order to keep them from visibly shaking from anger.

"Well, I can assure you that there are very few people who have met him who think that," Sebastian countered, clearly trying to save some face.

"Yes, and isn't that a damn shame. Those people are truly missing out," John placidly responded.

Sebastian squinted his eyes and stared at John for a brief moment and then he turned back to Sherlock. "Go on, enlighten me. Two trips in a month, flying all the way around the world. Quite right. How could you tell? You gonna tell me there was, err, a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?"

"No, I-"

"Maybe it was the mud on my shoes," Sebastian said with the obvious intent to be cruel.

There was something dangerous flashing in the man's eyes that John didn't like one bit. Sherlock looked as if he was about to spout something out, but he clearly thought better of it and said, "I was just chatting with your secretary outside."

Sebastian clearly wasn't too bright because he bought it with a laugh. "Right. I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break in."

John was seething by the time that they stood up. He clenched his fists several times and made sure that he was behind both Sherlock and Sebastian so they couldn't see how stiff he was. The desire to punch Sebastian and knock those obscenely sharp canines up into his soft palette was overwhelming. Where was this protectiveness coming from? He barely knew the man. God this was frustrating.

He stood well out of the way as Sherlock hopped around the office and looked for the desk where you would be able to see the symbols properly, but made sure to remain close enough so Sebastian couldn't say anything else awful to Sherlock. He half hoped that Sherlock asked him to come over to look at something so he could say something reassuring to the man. That didn't happen though. He announced that they were going to Eddie van Coon's flat and swept out before taking an advance check from Sebastian stating that he didn't need an incentive to work. Sebastian rolled his eyes and held the check out to John. The advance was £10,000. Once he was a good distance from Sebastian, he whispered, "_Shit_," and pocketed the check knowing that Sherlock would either forget about it or lose it. He dashed off after Sherlock knowing that the man would probably forget that John was with him and get a cab all on his own. Surprisingly, Sherlock was waiting just outside of the building for John with a cab.

John slid in and thanked him for holding the cab. "Where are we going?"

"Eddie van Coon's flat," he muttered.

John hummed in response. "Sebastian was a right dick."

"Indeed he is," Sherlock said softly, looking out the window.

John waited for him to offer more of a response like he usually did, but Sherlock remained silent so he went ahead and asked, "Who is Victor?"

Sherlock flinched almost imperceptibly. "He is no one of your concern."

"Whoever he is, he can't be a good guy based on the way you reacted to Sebastian mentioning him." John thought he saw Sherlock's mouth quirk up a bit as if he were proud of John for observing the way that Sherlock had reacted to the mention of Victor.

"He wasn't. Please John, just drop it."

"Alright Sherlock, I will."

The rest of the ride was silent and Sherlock seemed a bit darker than he normally did. John was glad that there was a case to distract him, but the fact that it was with someone who had been awful to Sherlock in the past and clearly had no issue slipping back into the role of bully now worried him. Shaking his head, John tried to clear the desire to protect Sherlock from his head again. The man was an adult who could take somewhat decent care of himself. He didn't need John's concern.

John had nearly died in a tunnel under London and it was all Sherlock's fault. To be fair, Sherlock hadn't known that was going to happen and he did distract the gang members enough so he was able to save Eddie van Coon's assistant, who had been tied to a chair in front of an arrow that was about to be fired, by tipping the chair he was tied to enough to change the trajectory of the arrow so it pierced the heart of the man holding her in place.

The details of how he got there were fuzzy. After John had gotten home from his new job, Sherlock had decided that she should go to a Chinese circus with the two of them so they could question her more about her late boss in an environment that would be more interesting that confrontational. John, much to Sherlock's dismay, had invited her back to their flat for tea, which turned into dinner. His anger dissipated when she saw that Soo-Lin had begun to decode what had been written on the brick wall and he left the flat. John had laughed affectionately, and not two minutes after Sherlock had left, the doorbell was ringing that should have been their food but was actually a burly Chinese man who pistol whipped him.

The poor woman who was with them was crying in her seat and had been trying to say something through the ball gag they were using to keep her quiet. When Sherlock reached her and untied that, she gasped out, "The pin. Is it a dragon?"

Sherlock nodded. "It's sitting on your bedside table and its worth nine million pounds."

"Jesus fucking Christ, nine million," she laughed out, her chest still heaving.

Sherlock chuckled. "I'll have you out in just a moment, and then I'll get to Dr. Watson who will make sure you aren't too badly hurt."

John dutifully checked her over, and they both made sure she got back to her flat safely. They then took a cab home where Sherlock stitched up John's forehead. When he asked about it, Sherlock just shrugged and said, "It came in handy when I would have been put in rehab if I had gone to a hospital."

That had made John incredibly sad. To console himself, he made them both tea and they drank it in their chairs with the fire going.

They drank in silence until Sherlock said, "Victor was someone I met during my last year at uni. He worked in a bookshop."

John set his cup down. "You don't have to."

"I want to." Sherlock leaned forward. "His dog bit me, so he took me across the street to his flat so I could get cleaned up. He said that he was seeing color, but I was confused because I wasn't. He said I must be color blind and I left. He waited outside of my flat every day for two months until I finally agreed to spend some time with him. It was innocent and I fell in love with him." He fell silent, and John waited patiently for him to either move on or stop the story altogether. It took him several minutes to begin to speak again.

"When I told my parents, they were confused. As I'm sure you've deduced, Mycroft has access to many things that the general public isn't allowed. This includes a genetic test that determines the gene for color blindness. The facility doesn't allow an individual who doesn't have a soul mate to get tested, but it lets the birth parents get tested so they can determine if there is a chance that they are color blind. The test is used by the public now, but you rarely hear about it. It is mostly reserved for children who have one parent who is color blind because they are, at the very least, a carrier for that particular gene. Mycroft has always been obsessed with the idea of a soul mate. He is a rational man, but this one insane idea has enchanted him since we were children. He was nearing 30 at that point and had been exposed to thousands of people through work. He travels quite a bit, and he meets many people. He was sure that with the amount of people he had made eye contact with, if he hadn't found his soul mate there must be something wrong with him. He asked our parents to get tested, and they agreed. They only carry the dominant trait that allows you to see color. There was no way for either of us to be color blind.

"My mother told me this when I told them about Victor. I returned to school that night to take him by surprise. When I got to his flat, Sebastian answered the door. They had found each other years before, but they kept it secret because they were adjusting to the fact that their soul mate was a man. Victor is an actor, and at that time he was having trouble finding roles. Sebastian came up with the idea to have him pretend to be my soul mate and convince me that I was color blind. They knew that there are some actors that stay in character for the entire time they are filming something, so they figured he could try it with me. It lasted for six months."

"I'm glad I didn't know that before we met Sebastian. I would have tossed him out the bloody window," John said in an alarmingly calm voice. He frightened himself with the amount of white hot hatred towards Sebastian and another man he had never met coursing through his veins.

"It's in the past, John," Sherlock said with a shake of his head. "It doesn't bother me."

"I don't believe that, but I'll let you have that." He contemplated whether or not he should ask his next question for a full minute before he finally blurted out, "Have you ever had any other relationship? Or have you found your soul mate?"

Sherlock was alarmingly pale. "No, I haven't. I did find my soul mate, but there was no possibility of him ever loving me back. There isn't even a possibility of him knowing that we're soul mates. In a twist of cruel irony, my soul mate is color blind." He stood. "I'll be off to bed, then. I'm glad you're alive."

With that, John was left to stare blankly at the fire and think for several minutes. He finally finished his cup of tea and extinguished the flames instead of drinking another cup or two of tea. As he moved into the dark stairwell and up to his room, he wished he could meet Sherlock's soul mate. It would be interesting to know who the man was because anyone who was to be bound to Sherlock for life was sure to be fascinating. Most of all though, he wanted to meet the man because he wanted to convince them that Sherlock had quickly become one of the best friend he had ever had in the oddest sense of the world, and he would have loved to convince him why Sherlock was worth it.

**A/N: Earlier I mentioned that John deliberately chose dumb people to have sex with so he wouldn't get attached. Except for Major Sholto, but look how that ended so I think he's done with choosing people with more than half of a brain for casual sex, don't you? Point: Sarah is a doctor, so even though we don't have much info on her I'm just going to guess that she was too smart to be one of John's quick, no-strings-attached flings. So yeah, that isn't happening.**


	14. Chapter 14

Whenever Mycroft was out of town, Greg felt a bit uncomfortable. He had gotten used to the size of their house and had put his personality into it, but something about so much space for just one person got to him. It was a lot of space for two people, but it reminded him that Mycroft had spent so many years in that house alone and lonely, which made him sad.

_Don't be such a girl, Greg_, he thought as he opened a bottle of his favorite lager and flopped down in front of the telly. He had been watching football highlights for only a few minutes when his phone rang. He groaned, hoping that it wasn't work more than he was hoping it was Mycroft. He was thankful that it was an unknown number because it wasn't work, but he was disappointed that it wasn't Mycroft.

"Lestrade," he answered.

"Hi, Greg, it's John Watson," a somewhat hesitant voice said into his ear.

"Hey John," Greg replied. He cringed when he thought of all of the messes that Sherlock could have gotten into that would have warranted this call. "What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you'd be up for getting that pint sometime soon."

God yes he would. "Tonight work for you?"

"Tonight's fine. I'll meet you at your local if you'd like."

Greg rattled off the address of his usual pub, killed the rest of his beer, and headed out the door.

John arrived about ten minutes after he did. Greg had ordered but had saved a stool for him. John fell into it and placed his order.

"What has he done?" Greg asked.

"He's fine," John said. He kept swallowing as if he was trying to say something but didn't know how to put it. "What's the deal with his soul mate?"

Greg froze. This was not territory he wanted to wade into. "John-"

"Look, I know that he's your brother-in-law and you don't want to divulge anything he wouldn't want others to know, but I can't figure it out. He's amazing. Why would anyone abuse him like that? He pretends he's stoic but in reality he's so fucking fragile that I can't stand it. Who would not let him love them and get close to them?"

Greg stared down at the bar. "I don't know, John. I assume you know what happened when he was younger based on that? John nodded. "Did he tell you how he got into the drugs?"

"No. I assume they were related but he was done talking before we got to that," John admitted.

"Christ, I shouldn't be telling you any of this," Greg breathed, tipping his head back towards the ceiling. He straightened his neck and looked John directly in the eye. "You have to promise that no matter what, you don't bring this up with him. I know he'll probably know that I've told you this, but if for some reason he doesn't don't tell him." He took a deep breath. "I wasn't in the picture until about four years after the whole thing with Victor came to a head, so all of this is through Mycroft. Sherlock was running down the stairs after he discovered that he'd been tricked and he fell. Busted up his ankle pretty badly in the process and the doctors put him on some heavy painkillers because it was that bad. You wouldn't know it now by the way he runs. Bloody bastard heals like he's immortal," Greg mumbled into his glass before he took another drink. The lager burned in his stomach.

"Anyways, he was pretty emotionally fucked up as well as physically hurt. The prescriptions helped with the pain in his ankle, but they also helped him deal with the emotional pain as well. Blurred everything around the edges and made the pain seem a little less fresh. They kept giving it to him because the ankle was so messed up, but he ended up getting addicted and when the prescriptions were cut off, he found less legal methods to get them. It started as morphine, and then he got into cocaine."

"Jesus," John pulled a large gulp from his glass. "How did he kick it?"

"I sort of blackmailed him," Greg admitted somewhat sheepishly. As an officer of the law, he was staunchly against blackmail, but for Sherlock it was either rehab or a very certain death that would happen very soon. "I met Mycroft about ten months before I met Sherlock. I met the parents, but Sherlock avoided them like the plague. He didn't want anyone to see him like that. Mycroft didn't care and went over to his flat as often as he could. He used to bring Sherlock clean needles to make sure that he didn't resort to using someone else's and getting a disease." Greg's shoulders slumped at the memory. "He used to come home on those days looking like the world was ending. The man has his fingers in every country's national security, and not being able to help his little brother was more troublesome than our involvement in those American wars in the Middle East or Putin threatening to cut off the natural gas supply to former Soviet Bloc countries.

"Sherlock sort of fell into my lap. One day this kid who was higher than a fucking satellite comes marching onto my crime scene in this dingy alley a few feet from his building and starts declaring that we're all idiots because it was clearly a homicide and not a tragic accident." He felt his lips quirk up involuntarily, but they fell quickly. "He then collapsed. He'd taken too much and overdosed. I took him to the hospital and waited for him to wake up with strict instructions to not touch the scene or the body. When he woke up he told me everything that he had observed, and sure enough he was right. I had already decided that I was going to offer him a deal: jail time for trespassing on a crime scene and I would have his flat searched because there was no way there weren't drugs there, or rehab and a guaranteed consultant's position when he was finished with the program and sober. He took it after I had learned his name and went into the hall to get in touch with Mycroft. When Mycroft showed up Sherlock almost went back on the deal and went to jail to spite his brother. Bunch of morons, I tell you.

"Anyway, he went to rehab and when he came back, he started consulting for me. I also worked with him to develop a private business. We've had more than enough scares when it comes to him actually staying sober, but he hasn't touched any drugs since he got out. We test him regularly, which he hates but he knows that he won't be allowed access to the Met's open or cold case files if he doesn't get the test done."

"I- shit, Greg, I had no idea it was that bad. I knew there were drugs, but I didn't-"

"You couldn't have known, John," he said gently. "Honestly, you may live with him but you aren't Sherlock. You can't see everyone's lives with just one glance."

"Yeah," John said, breathing out heavily. "What about his actual soul mate?"

"That I am expressly forbidden to tell you about," Greg answered honestly. He had already betrayed Sherlock's trust too much, and Sherlock had made him promise not to tell anyone about it. "You'll just have to talk to him about it."

"I tried. The man's a fucking clam," John groaned. "You can't tell me anything about him other than the fact that he's color blind?"

Greg thought for a moment. "This man, he's color blind, but if you see him around this guy you'd have to be well and truly blind in order to realize that Sherlock isn't painfully in love with this silly bugger. Sherlock is probably repressing a lot of his feelings for him. I don't know if he knows how fiercely he loves him yet, but Sherlock definitely knows he's in love. That's all I'll say."

John opened his mouth as if he were going to ask something else but he shut it and shook his head. "I just don't understand why someone wouldn't find him fascinating. Yeah, he can be a bit of a prick a lot of the time, but he's brilliant."

Greg shrugged. "Sherlock Holmes is remarkable. He has the potential to be a good person, but he chooses not to live up to that potential. He's a rude, arrogant wanker and I love the kid like he was my own flesh and blood." His phone beeped, and he read the text with a smile. "I've got to dash. Mycroft has been out of town for almost two weeks and he just got back."

"Christ! I didn't know. You should have said so," John exclaimed, clearly distressed about the fact that he was separating Greg from his partner.

"Neither did I. He says between one and three weeks, so I try to live my life as normally as possible and not sit around pining for the bastard when he's away." He fished in his pocket for cash for the beers and said, "You have an enormous amount of power over Sherlock, John. Don't abuse that."

With a clap to John's shoulder, he turned and walked out of the bar. He had intended to walk home since it really wasn't too far, but there was a ubiquitous black sedan outside of the bar. He rolled his eyes and walked straight over to the car as Mycroft stepped out.

"You know, I can make it home just fine on my feet," he said.

"I know," Mycroft said smoothly as the car pulled away. "I just thought you might like some company on your walk home." He held out his hand and Greg snatched it with a smile.

"Missed you a lot," he said shyly. He still didn't know what it was about Mycroft that made him so sheepish even after so many years together.

"I missed you as well," Mycroft said softly as he gave Greg's hand a quick squeeze. "Has anything notable happened during my absence?"

"Sherlock almost got John killed and fell in love with him in the process," he answered nonchalantly as if this were standard fare. When he thought about it, Sherlock almost got a lot of people killed at an alarmingly high rate, so it was pretty standard.

"That was fast," Mycroft muttered. "I thought it would be at least another month before they sorted themselves out."

"I didn't say that they had," Greg said. "I was actually getting a pint with John. Sherlock took a case for Sebastian Wilkes and he ended up telling John about Victor. John asked him about his soul mate, and Sherlock admitted he'd found it but his soul mate is color blind and said that they would never love Sherlock the way Sherlock loves him. John tried to get more information about it out of me since apparently Sherlock clammed up."

"That's more than anyone else has gotten," Mycroft said with a strained smile. "He's learning to trust John more."

"It would appear so. Tell me a bit about your trip. What you can," Greg added, knowing full well that Mycroft would have to gloss over most of the details of the trip.

Mycroft spoke briefly about his tour of several countries in the southeastern region of Asia until they reached their doorstep when he abruptly said, "I really have missed you."

"I didn't doubt that," Greg smiled over his shoulder as he fumbled with the keys. The door opened and Greg was barely over the threshold when Mycroft spun him around and gripped both of his shoulders.

"I mean it. I keep thinking about Sherlock and how difficult everything has been for him, and each time it made me remember just how lucky I've been. I never stopped thinking of you and I missed you immensely, Gregory." Mycroft realized what he was saying, and the man went beet red and turned to close and lock the front door. Greg wrapped his arms around his waist.

"If it makes you any less embarrassed, I feel the same way about you," Greg said into the space between Mycroft's shoulder blades.

Mycroft turned in Greg's arms and stooped a bit so he could rest his forehead on Greg's shoulder. "I would do anything to make sure that Sherlock experiences this."

"I know you would," Greg cooed. He ran his hand into Mycroft's thinning hair and pulled him impossibly closer to his body. "Let's go to bed." He didn't make a move until Mycroft nodded into his jacket and straightened up. He led his partner by the hand up the stairs and down a long hallway to their bedroom where they spent the rest of the night taking each other apart and quietly thanking any and all higher powers for the each other.


	15. Chapter 15

The blog wasn't popular, but John definitely enjoyed writing on it now that he was actually had a life to report on. A few of his friends had the link because he was a notoriously bad communicator and wanted them to know that he was alright. They would comment on it and it made John feel good that they were out there and still cared enough to talk to him. Most of them knew how bad things got after he was invalided home, and the fact that they had stuck by him even when he disappeared felt nice.

There were, of course, some comments that were totally random or somewhat unwarranted, but John shrugged them off. He supposed that he was asking for some disparaging comments by posting things on the internet. The downsides were heavily outweighed by the good ones and John had even brought in a few cases from it.

The story of John coming to terms with things doesn't start with the blog though. It began one evening when there was a story on the news about an unidentified army commander who brought a bunch of new kids out onto some standard surveillance mission near Helmand and only he returned alive. John had cringed and turned off the telly, which angered Sherlock who was apparently doing some sort of experiment on mindless current events drabble as background noise and how well he could concentrate with it on. John had said nothing, but he went up to his room to fetch his coat before running back down and using the need for a bit of exercise as an excuse. He did a few laps around Regent's Park and tried his hardest not to think about the fact that there was a strong chance that he had at least interacted with the commanding officer who had escaped with his life. He was too far out to know any of those poor kids that had died, but his heart still ached.

The thought of Sholto briefly flitted through his mind, but John quickly shook it out. Sholto was more of a strategist than one of the officers who led missions. The actual chances of him going on some sort of mission were far less likely than the odds of him being the mastermind behind said plan.

It was a few days before the paper told him he was wrong.

He would recognize that face anywhere.

According to the article, he might not actually know that face anymore. There had been some shrapnel that flew into his cheek and there were burns as well. John felt sick. How many times had he touched the skin that had been torn so violently from this man's body; how many times had he _kissed_ places that were now bloody and exposed?

What was worse was that people were accusing the man of leading the team into an ambush on purpose. The signs were obvious and he should have seen them. John's stomach turned. Of course he hadn't led them to their deaths! He was dealing with a bunch of rookies who were learning the ropes. If he had been distracted by them, how could he have seen the attack coming as clearly as he might have if he were leading a team of experienced soldiers? That was not the man John knew. The Major Sholto that John knew was stern and lived for the Army, but he also knew how to take someone apart using just his mouth and –

"Oh God!" John moaned and he dashed into the bathroom to be sick.

Sherlock's bedroom had a rarely used door that went into the bathroom, and in his haste to get to the toilet John had locked the door in the hall but not the one to the bedroom. Once he was finished with the first wave of nausea, he looked up and saw Sherlock poking his head around the door.

"Sod off, Sherlock," John choked. "I don't need you bothering me right now." The door shut and John almost felt bad for telling Sherlock to get out so harshly, but emotions were definitely not Sherlock's strong suit and he felt that the man would only make it worse. He was surprised a minute later when the door to the bedroom opened again and Sherlock entered with a glass of water and a cold facecloth for the back of his neck.

"Thank you," John said honestly. He took the glass and took a small sip that he swished around in his mouth and then spat into the toilet. He then handed the glass back to Sherlock and took the facecloth. Sherlock reached over and flushed the toilet after John had leaned against the wall.

"Sorry I told you to sod off," John muttered sheepishly. "It wasn't you. I don't want anyone seeing that."

"It's a normal human bodily function, John. Besides, I spent years dealing with a brother who fluttered between anorexia and bulimia as well as several years with sick junkies. I think I can handle your vomit." When he realized what he had said and just how revealing it was, Sherlock ducked his head and thrust the glass of water out to him. "What brought this on? Was it something we ate last night?"

"No, nothing like that I'm afraid. It was – I read some bad news in the paper. It was rather shocking."

"Would you like to talk about it?" Sherlock asked.

John chuckled. "Thank you, Sherlock, really, but I know that isn't something you want to hear."

"Well I could go and read the whole paper and try to deduce what it was that set you off through that, but it would be much easier for you to tell me."

John's brain stuttered when he took in the fact that Sherlock was talking about how he would actually read a newspaper for something not related to a case, but he shook it off and said, "You wouldn't have had far to look. Front page, above the fold. Go read it. I'm still processing it. Grab me some more water while you up please?"

Sherlock took the cup and returned with a full glass and the newspaper as John was brushing the taste of bile out of his mouth. John averted his eyes as he read. He didn't want to see that oversized picture staring back at him.

"He was your commander?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Yes," John said. He decided that he wouldn't mention the fact that they had been lovers unless Sherlock brought it up, which, with Sherlock, was a very likely possibility. "The things that they're saying about him… God, there is nothing monstrous about him. There's no way that he would have brought those poor kids somewhere dangerous on purpose for a training mission. He was a strict commander but everyone respected him. If he disciplined someone, you knew that you really deserved it. He never raised his voice either. It was always calm and collected. It was oddly soothing when you were surrounded by people barking orders at you constantly. He was a port in a storm." John realized how lovesick he must have sounded after all of that came out of his mouth.

Sherlock's expression was unreadable. "You were lovers. He was the man that you didn't want to talk about that night."

"Yes, he was, and I still don't want to talk about it," John said firmly. To stop himself from saying anything else, he took a large sip of water.

"But John-"

"_No_, Sherlock. Just fucking _drop it_, will you?" He stood up so he was looking down on the sitting man in the bathroom with him. "I'm not ready to talk about it. It was awful and I don't want to talk about it. Please don't press the issue. When I'm ready to tell someone I promise that I will tell you, but for once in your life will you please just stop?" He walked to the locked door and turned the button. "Thank you for the water and the cloth. They helped."

John did his best to ignore the public hearings that Sholto was being subjected to. He didn't want any reminder of the man. He was actually fairly successful in avoiding the news about the hearings. It was about a month after they finished that the blog became a tool for finding out about the man.

There was a comment from a guest who was only identified as "JS" which was surprising. John didn't think that anyone but his friends read the blog. When he read it, his blood ran cold.

**Watson, I would very much like to speak with you. I have something I need to say. –JS**

Fuck. Something important he needed to say. John could have used that two years ago when he was besotted with the man. He had gotten over him. He had moved on to another case of love that was destined to remain unrequited that had snuck up on him since Sherlock had found him vomiting the day he read that newspaper article.

_Sherlock_. The man was exquisite. He wanted to find the man's soul mate and shake some sense into him. It would hurt, but if it meant seeing Sherlock a little less listless, then he would take it. It would be worth it. That still didn't stop John from staring at Sherlock's back when he was turned away so Sherlock wouldn't catch him staring.

He closed the blog and his laptop and did his best to push Sholto to the side.

The comments kept coming. In fact, on John's blog there were at least two comments on every post from this mysterious "JS" that no one but John seemed to know about. Some of his friends commented on the newcomer and asked who he was, but Sholto never responded to any of them and John avoided answering any of the questions by completely ignoring them. This went on for a substantial amount of time. John had gotten dinner for himself and Sherlock and was walking back into the sitting room when he saw Sherlock sitting in his chair and badly disfigured Major Sholto sitting in Sherlock's.

"Get out," John said softly and dangerously.

"Not the proper way to treat our guest, John. Come on, you're always lecturing me on how we should be polite to our house guests. Look, I even made him tea," Sherlock gestured to the cup that Sholto was setting into a saucer as he stood up. Sherlock also stood.

"This is different, Sherlock," John growled. "If Victor showed up here and wanted to talk to you, would you want me to let him in or would you want me to punch him so hard he falls backwards off of the stairs outside the building."

Sherlock froze. "I see." He turned to Sholto. "Thank you for your time. You may go now."

"Please," Sholto said. It was the first thing he had said and that voice sent shivers up John's spine. He had heard the man use that same word so many times in a much different context. "Please, I know that it's over two years too late, but I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. I was awful to you. I should have recognized how you felt and I should have ended things more gently and not at that moment."

John looked between Sherlock and Sholto. He handed the bags of food to Sherlock. "Can you wait a few minutes for dinner?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'll be in my room." He placed the bags in the kitchen, and once John heard his door shut, he gestured to Sholto to sit down again.

"You broke my heart," John said flatly.

"I know," Sholto admitted. "I know that and I wish there was something I could do to change that. I caused you so much pain, and I was wrong. You had just suffered a loss and I was insensitive."

The thought of being unable to save Dominguez made John's eyes damp. "I had just lost one of my closest friends there. Bill was already home and missing a leg, Dave was trying to regain the power of speech, which he hasn't done still, and he was the only close friend I had left from the group of surgeons. All I needed then was someone to tell me everything would be alright even though it clearly wasn't and I needed someone who would wait to break things off until I wasn't on the floor of my office crying so hard I couldn't breathe." John buried his face in his hands and tried to compose himself.

"I think about what I did every day, Watson. I've wanted to say this for a long time, and it makes no difference now but I'm so sorry for what I did to you."

They sat in silence for a few minutes while John took deep breaths. Every the polite host, he asked, "How is civilian life treating you?"

"Better than some, worse than others," Sholto said cryptically. "I met my soul mate. Her name is Karen."

"Oh," John said softly. "Well, I'm glad that you found someone more compatible and who you didn't mind getting attached to."

Sholto blanched, and John almost felt bad for him. "Thank you for stopping by. Truly. Now please, I need you to leave."

Sholto stood slowly, and John rose to meet him. "If you ever want to get in contact, reply to one of the comments I wrote. I'll get an email about it and we can meet somewhere private. People have been sending me more death threats than I ever thought I would get."

"I don't think that will be happening, but I'll remember that," John said softly. He held out his hand and Sholto shook it firmly. With the quick steps of someone used to marching formations, he left the flat.

John waited until he heard the front door shut until he began to cry. It was like the night where everything between them had fallen apart all over again. John had only cried from the physical pain of being shot since then. It was as if every repressed emotion from the last two years had finally reached the point where they had built up too much pressure on whatever cap was keeping them in and then they erupted all at once.

Sherlock must have heard him sobbing because he was soon outside of his room and in the sitting room. John had somehow ended up on the floor; he had apparently collapsed after being rooted to the spot where he had shaken the hand of his old commander. John knew he was wailing out loud but he couldn't stop it.

Much to his surprise, Sherlock sank down to the ground next to him and put a comforting arm around his shoulder, saying "You two were a bit loud and I heard it all. I'm so sorry, John. So sorry." John leaned into the touch, and before he knew what was happening Sherlock had wrapped his arms around him and was rubbing his arm comfortingly. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso and buried his face into the side of Sherlock's neck and on his shoulder. They stayed like that until John was just letting out dry sobs.

"Would you like some dinner or do you want to go to bed?" Sherlock asked gently.

John raised his blotchy face. "Fuck, I forgot about the dinner. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. You must be starving. Let's reheat the food. I'm famished and I could use about a gallon of water because I think I'm all dried out now." John gave a shaky laugh and tried to stand.

"Why don't you just go sit on the couch and I'll heat something up. Do you want the water first?"

John nodded. As Sherlock moved into the kitchen, he wondered if something was wrong with the man. They never hugged. It just didn't happen. Sherlock was also shit with emotions, and John suspected that he would normally run screaming from the display that he'd just put on. So why was he doing this?

John actually never got a chance to ask this question, because Sherlock was clearly in a more pensive mood after he came back with the food. They went to bed soon after they had finished eating, and John meant to ask Sherlock about it in the morning, but he was so drained that he slept to 11 the next morning, and even then it was only because Sherlock came bounding into their room declaring that there was a case that demanded their immediate attention.

**A/N: Hey y'all! I've made a few chapter divisions already. The count has moved up to 18. I would say I'm sorry for dragging this out but I'm totally not. xoxoxo**


	16. Chapter 16

Everyone was exhausted. Starting from the time that Sherlock was sent a phone that resembled the one that Jennifer Wilson had owned there had been nonstop work to try to track down the bomber who was kidnapping random people and leaving them in public places with bombs strapped to their bodies. Greg's team was exhausted. Hell, he was exhausted. He hadn't been home in three days.

The first and second bombs were stressful beyond belief but there was also a strange sense of ease when it came to solving them, though that was probably been him looking back and comparing all of them. The third one was a disaster because of all of the deaths. The way that everyone had slumped when the woman said too much and the line went dead. God.

The worst of the bunch was Sherlock. Greg knew that beyond the passion for crime solving for fun, there was someone who actually wanted to see people who did bad things behind bars. Sherlock had been a victim enough times in his youth. He didn't like seeing other people become victims when he knew it could be stopped. Mycroft had informed him that their flat had been repaired since the bombing a few days earlier, so Greg sent the two of them home. He knew that it probably wouldn't do Sherlock much good, but he could see that John desperately needed it. If he told Sherlock that John needed it, then Sherlock would do as he was told. That didn't stop him from obsessing over the case when they got back to their place. According to John, Sherlock had sat in front of the telly watching the news coverage of a gas leak that had killed eleven people.

Greg didn't think that they could get worse for Sherlock, but they did. The fourth bomb was related to astronomy, which John had said on his blog that Sherlock knew bugger all about. He could see the guilt in John's eyes during that whole ordeal. When a child with only a few seconds to live was named the victim, Sherlock panicked. He paced and spoke rapidly, and then suddenly he had it. Greg still noted mania in his eyes long after the call was over. The mania became worse when they were interviewing the museum curator and she said she had been working with a man named Moriarty. Greg hadn't heard the name before, but the way that Sherlock and John reacted to it there could be nothing good coming from this.

They waited with baited breath for the final bomb, but it seemed to take forever in comparison to the other bombs and puzzles for Sherlock. Again, Greg couldn't imagine how much worse this situation could get when he got a phone call proving that it had indeed escalated yet again from bad to worse.

After the kid, Sherlock was visibly shaken. John knew that someone with a brain as big as Sherlock's and a personality like his couldn't have been treated well by his peers as a child. Children could be cruel, and John had no doubt that past bullying was the reason that Sherlock was so closed off.

It was obvious that the man needed space after the painting and the confirmation that Moriarty was behind the bombings. He had started yelling at trashy television. John took this as a subtle way of Sherlock saying, "Please get the fuck out because you're annoying me and I'm likely to stab you if you stay." So he decided to pick up a bunch of pastries for the Yarders, who were running on fumes at that point. As he left, Sherlock promised to pick up some groceries, which stunned John. There was something wrong with him, but John wasn't about to find out what because Sherlock started throwing books at the wall in order to express his frustration at the television.

He was greatly appreciated when he arrived at Scotland Yard. He was practically mobbed by police officers who were about to crash and couldn't take any more caffeine so they had switched to sugar. He had an éclair saved for Lestrade because he had somehow found out was his favorite pastry. He knocked on the door, and the bleak stare that greeted him was so frighteningly sad that John nearly turned and ran. Instead, he walked forward and handed Lestrade the pastry. The man looked as if he hadn't seen food for days the way his eyes lit up when he saw it. Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation, but Lestrade actually got up and hugged him in thanks.

"Nearly got killed by the mob of homicide detectives that hit me when I walked through the door with these things," John said with a smile. "At least there would have been good witnesses around."

Lestrade gave a wry chuckle. He pointed to the chair in front of his desk. "Sit. How's the consulting git?"

"He's started watching crap telly and throwing books at the walls out of frustration, but at least he isn't shooting the wall again. Pretend you didn't hear that last part," John added when Greg's eyebrow cocked up.

"I'm so tired that I probably actually will," he sighed. He took a bit out of his éclair and his head tipped back. "I would bloody kiss you right now if I were unattached. Fuck, I'm in danger of it now. I haven't seen Mycroft in days because of this fucking bomber and I miss him like hell."

"At least you have a soul mate to go home to at the end of this ordeal," John said with a shrug. He thought that suggesting that Lestrade had something to look forward to may give the man a bit of a second wind. "I've got a man child who will probably declare he's bored within fifteen minutes of the case being solved and will resort to blowing up the kitchen to make life exciting for a few seconds. A warm body in my bed would be a welcome thing after this is done."

The way that Lestrade's eyes flashed when he said that made him realize that he had made some sort of grave error, but he had no idea what.

"Are you _fucking_ kidding me?" Lestrade growled.

Greg was seething. He actually thought he might start foaming at the mouth.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me, John Watson," he said dangerously.

John, bless him, actually had the decency to look scared. Maybe he actually was scared. Greg couldn't tell at this point. Everything was a bit blurry.

"It has been _months_ since that first time we went out for drinks, and you still haven't fucking figured it out yet!" Greg yelled. His team had stopped working and was listening to everything he said at this point but he didn't care one bit. His heart and Mycroft's heart had been aching for Sherlock since he and John met, and this stupid git couldn't see it.

"You." Greg shouted. "It's you, you twat! You're the color blind one who Sherlock's fucking in love with. He has been living with you and trying to figure out how the fuck he was going to tell you that you can't see fucking color but he's been seeing it _for over a year now_ and he's scared. You know what happened to him. He can't bear to have someone think they're being put through the same hell that he had to endure, and _that_ is why Sherlock Holmes is a good man. He's an arrogant dick and I hate him sometimes, but he's my family and I love him like I love my own siblings and it is _tearing me up_ that he is _living_ with you and _loving_ you but he's so traumatized by what Victor and Sebastian did to him that he would rather you flutter through life thinking you don't have a soul mate than make you try to believe that you're actually the one in this relationship that's color blind. _Open your fucking eyes_!"

Greg's chest was heaving. He was standing and his fists were on his desk, bracing him as he leaned forward and screamed down at John, who was sitting in the chair in disbelief.

John had just been reamed out in front of Lestrade's entire division and he deserved it. He sat perfectly still through Greg's tirade with an expression that no doubt conveyed complete shock and total disbelief at what he was hearing. He should have been frightened by the man. He was, after all, a lot taller than John. There was also the fact that John couldn't move and Lestrade looked as if he were restraining himself from leaping across the desk and strangling him.

"Do you not have anything to say to that?" Lestrade shouted after he had stared slack jawed at the man for an amount of time that he couldn't gauge.

"It's me?" John whispered.

"Didn't you listen to me you stupid selfish cunt?"

"It's me!" John exclaimed, jumping up from his seat. "You aren't just yanking my chain because you haven't slept in days, right Greg?"

"If you don't think was perfectly serious, I am going to kill you John Watson. I swear to God, I know plenty of ways to do it slowly and painfully and I would get off of a homicide charge because I am married to Mycroft who could make charges disappear from a known terrorist if he wanted to."

"Greg!" John raced towards the door and turned around under the doorframe when he reached it. "Greg I've been so fucking in love with him since God knows when and I didn't say anything because I knew he was in love with his soul mate. I've been feeling so overprotective of him, like if anything hurt him I was going to rip that thing limb from limb. Fuck, I've got to go! I have to tell him."

Greg could honestly say that he didn't see that reaction coming. He was half expecting to be punched. He was also half hoping because if John had any intention of hurting his brother he would lock the man up for the rest of his life.

"Go on you moron," Greg smiled. "He's probably destroyed the whole flat by now. See if you still love him when you get home."

"Oh, I will. Trust me." With a huge smile, John ran across the hall to the stairs.

John flew down the stairs. He ran out into the street and tried to hail a cab, but they were all full. He wished for Sherlock's extraordinary ability to hail a cab within thirty seconds of sticking his arm out. Knowing that he wasn't going to get one on that street, he considered running for several blocks in order to find a less busy side street where it would be easier to find a cab.

As he sprinted, he noticed that a cab seemed to be following him. He skidded to a halt, thinking that the driver had seen him stick out his arm and then followed him down the block in order to offer him a ride.

As John slid into the cab, he gave their address. The cabbie answered, "I don't think so, John."

John knew that voice. Where did he know that voice from? He realized that this was probably a very bad idea and decided to get out, but before he could there were two large men sliding in each door. He struggled as the cab pulled into the street, but it was useless. The men slipped a coat on him and strapped it on. It felt heavier than a coat should, and when he looked down he realized that there was an explosive device in it. There must have been double sided tape on the side that rested against his body because the bomb didn't move when he struggled. It made it easier for the men to secure it more thoroughly to his body.

Belatedly, he realized it was the same type of bomb that had been strapped on every single one of the victims. Maybe he only confirmed that? He wasn't sure.

As he realized that, John looked up and saw a face that he knew. Jim from IT, Molly's new boyfriend, was smiling at him through the rearview mirror.

"Surprise, John," Jim said in a smooth voice that could only be described as pure evil, nothing like the one he had used when the dopey IT guy had come into the lab. "Bet you didn't see this coming."

"Who are you?" John knew the answer, but he needed confirmation. He had to hear it.

Jim raised a hand and wiggled his fingers in a little wave. "Jim Moriarty. _Hi_."


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock knew that John was going to yell at him when he found out what he'd done. They were supposed to work together to make sure that they didn't get killed, and Sherlock had an awful feeling that he was walking into some sort of death trap. He walked in with John's gun out and ready to fire if need be, though that would mean almost certain death and he really wanted to avoid that.

The gun wavered a bit as John walked out from one of the changing stalls in a large coat.

_John._

* * *

The look of betrayal in Sherlock's eyes made John want to say screw the lines that he was being fed and just tell Sherlock to run. He was fairly certain that a bomb like this would be powerful enough to take down the whole building and if it did detonate, Sherlock wouldn't be able to get out in time. That would defeat the purpose of his plan.

As John repeated the words that Jim Moriarty said into his ear, he opened the coat a bit so Sherlock could see the bomb. The relief in his eyes was immeasurable.

_See, Sherlock? I would never do that to you._

_Get out while you still can. Get out before he comes out of the locker room. Get out before I do something that will get both myself and Moriarty blown up._

* * *

James Moriarty was the devil in a man's body. He was going to have them shot by snipers just for fun. John had confirmed this when he leaped on Moriarty's back and threatened not to let go until someone shot at them and they both were killed by the bomb.

John was going to do something stupid. John was going to find a way to get Sherlock out of there so he could detonate the bomb and kill Moriarty. Moriarty and John. Unacceptable.

As Sherlock was running through options in his head, John let go of Moriarty slowly and backed up. His eyes were glassy with fear and they were fixated on Sherlock's forehead. A kill shot, or possibly more than one. Moriarty seemed like the type of man to have extras around just in case. There was probably one pet sniper who did most of the dirty work, but there were also probably many more that weren't quite as trusted. The favorite sniper was probably there to ensure that the less trusted snipers didn't try something stupid. He would be able to shoot and kill people who weren't wholeheartedly devoted to Moriarty and whatever his mission was at a close range. A definite kill.

As the second ticked by and their conversation dragged on, it seemed like Sherlock and John were also going to be definite kills, but it was mere minutes later that Moriarty was waltzing out the door of the pool and leaving them alone.

* * *

His heart was racing. He had never been that scared in his life because fucking Sherlock had been in such danger. What would the world have done without him?

The bomb was too heavy and too dangerous. He started clawing at the tape that had secured it to his shirt so it was sandwiched between the coat and his body, but his hands were shaking too much.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked urgently. He ran over to John and began ripping the damn thing off of him, and then he slid the coat as far down the pool deck as he could. John couldn't stop nodding. Yes, he was alright. They were alright. Oh God, they were alive. His legs gave out and he slid down so his back was resting on one of the dividers at the changing stalls.

"That, uh. That thing you did. That was good," Sherlock muttered. He was pacing frantically as if all of the repressed panic was hitting him all at once. He was scratching the back of his head with the hand that was still holding the gun.

"Sherlock come here," John gasped his heart still racing and his breathing still labored. He patted the tile next to him. Sherlock stared, confused, but he sank down anyway. John reached over and took his face in his trembling hands. He then leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips.

* * *

Alarm bells were going off in Sherlock's head. His brain was short circuiting. It hadn't been like this with Victor. What was _happening_?

Then John pulled back and Sherlock felt the loss the way one might miss a missing limb.

The lunged for each other at the same time. The just hugged tightly this time.

"I'm your soul mate," Sherlock said over his shoulder.

"I know," John sighed, hugging Sherlock impossibly tighter. "I'm color blind."

"I know." Sherlock moved a hand up so it was in John's hair. "How did you figure it out?"

"I didn't," John sighed. "Lestrade overshares when he's sleep deprived. He yelled at me in front of his whole team."

"Bastard. The night you shot the cabbie he said he wouldn't tell anyone," Sherlock said without any malice in his voice.

"There was probably an unspoken statute of limitations on that promise since we're both idiots. Actually, I'm color blind and you're the idiot for not seeing that I'm absolutely crazy for you."

Sherlock didn't want to respond to that. Instead, he pulled back and kissed John again; still without any tongue action but a bit fiercer and with more pressure.

"Surprise! I'm sooooooo changeable!"

* * *

John was dreaming. This was a nightmare. But if it was a dream then he wouldn't have kissed Sherlock and he would be worse off when he woke up. From the turned down mouth and the flash of something unfamiliar in his eyes, John knew Sherlock was there and he was actually a bit frightened. He stood, taking the gun with him. John tried, but his legs were still shaky and he didn't trust them.

"You just can't leave here," Moriarty was saying. Had he been talking? John had been too busy looking at Sherlock and trying to figure out what was going through the man's head. John could only see one way out, and he hoped that Sherlock was thinking of the same thing.

Sure enough, Sherlock's eyes flitted over to John and then moved to his periphery towards the bomb. John gave an imperceptible nod. Sherlock turned and pointed the gun at the bomb. "Then perhaps my answer has already crossed your mind."

John's eyes were trained on the trigger. He knew what he had to do. As soon as it fired. He could do this. Sherlock's finger wavered for a second, and he turned his eyes to John. They were sad, as if he were imagining the time they could have had together but they had wasted their time. As soon as the look was there, it was also gone, and John's eyes went back to the trigger.

Sherlock pulled, and John found the last bit of adrenalin in his body and leaped forward.

* * *

Sherlock was flying through the air towards the pool. He hadn't felt the wall of heat that he should be feeling after a bomb had gone off, but that could also have been his brain protecting him by going into shock. But no, this wasn't right. There was no explosion.

He hit the water close to the center of the pool, and John was right behind him. Ah, that was what sent him flying so quickly that they beat the detonation. How had that happened? Sherlock would sort that out later. As he decided to drag John to the other side – underwater of course – to make sure that when the concrete around the pool collapsed the chunks of rock and tile would have slowed down enough to not do much damage, the bomb went off.

They still swam towards the middle, but pieces of what used to be the pool deck hit them. The pieces were mercifully small and the water had done some work to slow them down by the time they got there. Sherlock stuck his head up in order to assess the situation. The building was old and not very structurally sound. It was most certainly going to collapse around them in the next two minutes, and smaller pieces of iron would probably be the first things to go from the ceiling that were truly a danger to them. He spotted a ladder and motioned for John to swim towards it and to keep his head underwater for as long as he could.

John got the message and swam after him. Sherlock reached the ladder first and scrambled up it so he could help John up. He was sure that the man would be able to move fairly quickly – after all, he had done a frog leap to launch himself and Sherlock into the pool – but his legs were probably still shaky. John grasped his hand gratefully and Sherlock let him lean into his body when he was on the other side of the deck.

"We have to try the door I came in," he shouted over the roaring flames. John nodded and they set off at a brisk pace to reach the door.

Out of all of the rotten luck they had had, they found two small miracles in this whole process of escaping the burning building. The pieces of the pool deck had been small and somewhat slow by the time they reached them, and the exit was completely clear of flames for the moment. Normally Sherlock would have wanted to stay near the scene and wait for the police, but this would be a job for the bomb squad because there was no way to tell if there was another device in the building. He also had an overwhelming desire to get John as far away from the building as possible. They set off down the street as fast as they could and they didn't stop until they found a police officer who could radio for Lestrade since their phones were most certainly water damaged.

* * *

Greg was in his squad car driving faster than he ever had. There was really no excuse for him to be going that fast on narrow city streets, but there was no way that Sherlock and John weren't in that building because when he had called them a few minutes earlier both of their phones went straight to voicemail.

He was weaving through cars that weren't getting out of his way when his name crackled on the radio. He was so focused on not killing someone with his driving that he almost missed it, but he then had the presence of mind to click it on and respond to the calling officer. He was sure that their bodies had been found. He was about to cry.

"They're with me, Inspector," the officer said. He rattled off an intersection and Greg made an illegal U-turn in order to go in the right direction. He drove even faster to that spot because he wouldn't believe they were alive until he saw them with his own eyes.

There was an ambulance behind a squad car on the side of the road, and Greg knew it was them. He slammed the car into park so hard that he worried about whiplash. He then raced out of the car to find Sherlock and John, soaking wet and sharing a shock blanket.

"Oh my God," he choked. "Don't you _ever_ do anything like this again," he said, his voice cracking. He reached forward and drew them both into a hug. "Don't ever do this again. You two are morons. You are the stupidest two people in the whole damn country." He pulled back, the front of his suit soaked. He turned to the paramedic and said, "Take them to the hospital now. Please, before they run off and do something else stupid. I'll follow."

* * *

Mycroft was in a meeting to deal with the fallout from the flash drive. They needed to come up with a better way to choose their agents. He was getting a headache when Anthea walked into the conference room with his red Sherlock phone.

"The Detective Inspector, sir," she said discreetly.

"Excuse me," Mycroft said politely as he moved into the hall and down the corridor to his office.

"Gregory, I'm in a meeting. How urgent is it?"

"Sherlock and John are alive but were in an explosion. I don't have the details but it sounds like one of them shot the bomb. There are guys in there trying to pull a few bodies out as they extinguish the flames. They're in an ambulance. I'm following."

"Give me your intersection," Mycroft demanded. "I'll fiddle with the lights so you don't have to worry about drivers not responding to the sirens or stopping in an inconvenient spot."

"You're a saint," Greg sighed. "After you finish fiddling with the lights, meet us at whatever hospital we're going to. I have no earthly idea."

"I'll make a call to the ambulance drivers. They're going to be changing their course."

* * *

They were very lucky. John knew that both as a medical man and as a person with half a brain. They should have died. Nothing was broken. There were a few cuts and bruises from the debris that had travelled their way in the water, but only a few needed stitches. Most were superficial and were cleaned and dressed quickly. They were given some shots to protect against diseases that could come from cutting yourself on something – namely tetanus. They were given full body MRIs, X-rays, and EEGs. All were clear.

John was certain that they had a guardian angel on their side.

Mycroft and Greg hovered, but it was comforting. The last time John had been in the hospital, he had no one. Now he had a soul mate sitting next to him getting stitches as well, as well as two family members who cared enough to stay up into the wee smalls to make sure he and Sherlock were okay. Sure, Greg had to take their statements, but once he switched the voice recorder off he went back to a perfect picture of concern.

Greg had gotten Sally to go and pick up his squad car with the promise of a day off once this ordeal was sorted. She obliged him and took it back to the Yard. He piled into the car Mycroft had come in and all four of them rode over to Baker Street. Both of them followed John and Sherlock up to the flat, and once they had ensured that it was clear of anyone who could harm them, they left.

John turned to Sherlock. "I'm about dead on my feet. I don't even know if I can stand anymore."

As if his body was waiting for that cue, his knees buckled. Sherlock lunged forward and grabbed him under his armpits to keep him from falling. He dragged John into his bedroom because that meant they didn't have to deal with stairs. Once John was stripped down to his pants and tucked in, Sherlock started towards the door.

"Where are you going?" John asked, confused.

"Your bed. It makes sense to switch for tonight so you don't have to take the stairs," Sherlock responded. He didn't look happy at the prospect.

"I don't mind sharing with you," John smiled. "In fact, I would love nothing more than to have you next to me so I can have a cuddle."

"A _cuddle_, John, really," Sherlock scoffed. Nonetheless, he removed all articles of clothing other than his pants and crawled into the bed.

It was clear that Sherlock didn't know what to do, so John scooted over and pulled Sherlock's arm over his torso. "I know you sleep on your side," he whispered. "I sleep on my back. Perfect arrangement."

Sherlock made a noise of contentment, and he made another one when John moved a hand into his hair. John smiled as Sherlock shuffled closer and squeezed him tighter – but not too tight so he hurt any of John's injuries – before his breathing evened out and he let out soft snores.

John would have loved to have watched him all night, but he too lost the battle with fatigue and drifted off quickly with a hand on Sherlock's arm that stretched across his body, the other cradling the back of Sherlock's skull, and his nose buried in Sherlock's gorgeous curls.

* * *

As they pulled up to their home in one of the many black cars that moved them around, Greg got a phone call. He groaned, knowing that it was probably work. He glanced apologetically at Mycroft, then picked up.

"They've made IDs on the bodies," Donovan said breathlessly.

"Yeah? Who is it?" Greg asked nervously, hoping that the answer would be good. He clicked on the speaker phone so Mycroft could hear as well.

"There were a lot and all of them are showing up as known dangerous criminals either here or on the continent. The big two are James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran."

Greg hung his head. "Oh my God," he gasped.

"He's no longer an issue," Sally said with a smile evident in her voice.

"That he is," Greg smiled back, stepping though the front door. "Go to bed, Donovan. You deserve it after this week."

"You too, sir."

Mycroft looked expectantly at Greg as he hung up. "He's dead," Greg said as if he had to say it himself to believe it. Mycroft's shoulders relaxed as if physical weight had been lifted off of them.

"Thank God," he whispered. Greg nodded and unsuccessfully tried to stifle an enormous yawn. "Bed, I think. You'll have a busy day tomorrow."

"Yeah, but it'll be one of those insane days that's really worth it." Greg climbed the stairs slowly and fell into bed with all of his clothes still on. Mycroft sighed and pulled off Greg's shoes and maneuvered him out of his blazer, but after that the man was a lost cause. Despairing over the condition his suit would be in when they woke up, he shook his head and headed towards the bathroom. Mycroft took the time to get into his pajamas and brush his teeth, but as soon as he got into bed and his still clothed partner snuggled up to him and threw an arm around his torso and a leg in between his legs, he forgot all about the endless ironing he was going to have to do to and fell asleep.


	18. Chapter 18

Six months after Moriarty's death, Sherlock and John had adjusted to the change in their relationship and were living quite comfortably. The publicity that surrounded the Moriarty case had brought clients in in droves. Between interesting cases from Scotland Yard and clients who gave him interesting stories to work with, Sherlock was rarely ever bored. John's life – and, if people were being totally honest, the lives of every person who knew Sherlock – had gotten considerably easier.

Their personal lives had changed very little when they had admitted their feelings for each other. The main differences were that they slept in the same bed, kissed a lot, and had a frankly appalling amount of sex.

God, the sex was fantastic. John had never believed it when people said that sex with someone you love makes it insanely good. He had never had a problem with finding good sex before, but this was something else. Sherlock may have been a virgin when they started dating, but even those first fumbling times were some of the best shags that John had had in his life. Sherlock kept looking at him like he was a treasure, and John drank him up like a man in a desert who had found water. An early discussion in their relationship led to the revelation that neither of them wanted to be penetrated, so there was a lot of thrusting against each other and mouths on cocks. John, who had earned quite the reputation when he was younger for sticking his cock in almost any woman (and that one man) with a pulse, was content to never stick his cock into a hole on the lower half of someone else's body ever again.

The following is the story of how Sherlock lost his virginity.

It was a little over two weeks after the pool and all of their injuries were healing up nicely. John had dutifully climbed into Sherlock's bed every night and they had done nothing but curl up into each other. They were both content with their so far celibate relationship and there were no indications that they were going to move forward any time soon and they were both fine with that. John had some negative connotations about sex with men and what they would do to his heart, and Sherlock had just never done it before.

They had a celebratory snog when Greg told them that Moriarty had died in the blast. That had consisted of the two of them sprawled on the floor, Sherlock on top of John, pressed together as tightly as they could be. It had died down naturally before they had moved on to bigger things, and they were left to lie in front of the fire in each other's arms.

"I'll be ready soon," Sherlock promised.

John shook his head. "It doesn't matter, Sherlock. Most of the reasons why I'm with you have nothing to do with sex."

"Yes, but _some_ of them do," Sherlock had countered.

"Well, yes," John had admitted. "Have you ever considered that I might not be ready?"

"No. You've had considerable sexual experience and you've had a male partner that meant quite a bit to you. You shouldn't be uncomfortable with this."

John flipped onto his side and turned Sherlock so he was facing him. "Yes, he meant a lot to me, and yes, I loved him. I wanted to be with him for as long as it seemed like we would be good together. I was shattered when he put an end to us. It wasn't the same way that I love you and I want to be with you," John said, quickly soothing the worried expression on Sherlock's face. "I was heartbroken, and then I was physically damaged, and then mentally damaged to the point where I couldn't even feel the pain of his rejection anymore. When he came by to tell me he had found his soul mate, I was devastated and relieved. There was a huge part of me that was falling in love with you, but there was also a small bit that couldn't shake him. When he visited it hurt, but it gave me permission to love you wholly like I should have been doing all along." He pecked Sherlock's lips and curled into him. "It hasn't been very long though, and I'm still wrapping my head around all of this. If we did it now, it would be wrong for both of us."

They stayed like that until Sherlock made some grumbling about his back and they moved their cuddle to the bedroom.

It was two weeks after John had confessed that he wasn't ready either that they actually did the deed. There was a lot of talk about how far they were both comfortable going and what acts were off-limits. There were discussions about whether they should plan or let it be spontaneous. In the end, it was as most people would expect from them: post-case.

There hadn't been anything quite as terrifying as the ordeal with Moriarty – though it had only been two weeks – and their cases were fairly standard. Sherlock got called in for a homicide and John tagged along. Sherlock told all of Lestrade's team about his deductions and then someone had shifted a shelf and there was a weapon that completely changed everything. Sherlock flapped around excitedly and drew conclusions at a rate that made John's head spin. John half expected them to go running off after a killer once he had wrapped things up, and that was fine, but the excitement and happiness and sheer brilliance that Sherlock was displaying was making John ridiculously horny. He tried to mask it, but Sherlock being Sherlock just glanced at him and could tell. His gaze turned from excited to lust-fueled, and he left the scene for Lestrade and his people to deal with.

Sherlock hailed a cab and nudged John in, telling the address to the driver. They had barely shut the door in the cab when John lunged for Sherlock. They lips pressed together and John pushed a tongue past Sherlock's so he could lick the inside of the top row of his teeth. Sherlock moaned, and the cabbie banged on the partition between them.

"Lovebirds," he called. "You're fifteen from your place. Keep it in your pants until then."

Sherlock pulled back and looked as if he was going to say something rude, so John cut in and said, "Sorry. We just got carried away. You know how it is when you love someone so much you can't keep your hands off of them." He never pulled away, but only their noses were touching rather than their mouths at this point.

"Sure, but the missus and I can keep our bloody hands out of our pants," he grumbled.

John giggled and brushed a hand across Sherlock's cheekbone. "Sorry," he repeated. He then proceeded to shift so he was leaning into Sherlock without seeming overtly sexual, though his hand was tortuously placed on the inside of one of Sherlock's thighs.

The cab ride may have only been about fifteen minutes, but it felt like a hell of a lot longer than that. By the time they had pulled up, Sherlock had already retrieved a clump of bills from his pocket and was practically tossing them at the cabbie. He then dragged John out of the vehicle and pulled him through the various doors they needed to get through and up a few stairs so they could put the world outside of their bedroom and get on with whatever they needed to get on with.

The kisses once John had shut the bedroom door were horrifically slow. He felt his knees going out and gasped desperately into Sherlock's mouth. He gripped the fine fabric of Sherlock's shirt so hard that he was concerned somewhere far off that it would rip, but he didn't care enough to stop doing it.

Sherlock's ability to kiss may have improved during their time together but the differences in their experience levels soon became apparent. John deftly stripped Sherlock of his shirt and belt without looking. He was undoing the zipper of Sherlock's trousers without his eyes when he felt Sherlock fumbling with the topmost button on John's shirt.

John plucked Sherlock's hands from his collar and used them as leverage to walk him back to the bed and topple him backwards onto it. Sherlock was clearly surprised, but he stayed blessedly silent and let John remove his trousers and socks before taking off his own clothes, leaving them both in their pants.

John scooted Sherlock up the bed so he was in the center and then he crawled over him. He felt fairly self-conscious about his scar. No one other than his doctor had seen it, and even then John had insisted on having a drape so he could cover it up immediately after the man was done examining it. This was different. This was Sherlock. There would be no judgment there.

Sure enough, Sherlock gasped and raised a hand to it, tracing the unmarked skin around it reverently. He then kissed John gently and the tone of everything they were doing shifted.

John flipped Sherlock so the taller man was on top. Sherlock looked a bit stunned when his position changed, but he experimentally nudged his crotch against John's and his eyes rolled back when they touched. He hung his head and John pressed a kiss to his curls.

"Take what you need," he whispered.

With a moan, Sherlock began to move in awkward, jerky thrusts. It was obvious that he had never done this before, and John thought it was glorious. After a few minutes, he pushed Sherlock up and pulled at the elastic on his pants. "Lose these," he commanded.

Sherlock complied, tossing both pairs behind his shoulder and not caring where they ended up. John knew that he would be the one picking them up later but that thought escaped him as Sherlock placed awkward kisses along his neck. John reached down and grabbed Sherlock's behind so he could pull the thinner man close to him. Sherlock let out a great groan, and he started humping John's thigh in short, jerky thrusts that, once again, showed inexperience. John rocked up into the other man, not caring as much about his own pleasure as he cared about touching Sherlock and whispering encouragements to him as he allowed the animalistic side of his brain to shut out the logical side for once.

With little warning other than the unevenness of his thrusts, Sherlock's bowed in and his head snapped back. He let out a sound that could best be categorized as a cross between a moan and a gurgle and then dropped like a marionette whose strings had been cut. He gasped for air and shook, clutching at John like he was about to float away.

"You're beautiful, Sherlock. So gorgeous," John whispered, tracing the vertebrae he could reach with the tips of his fingers.

"John, oh my _God_," Sherlock moaned. "I think I know why people murder others because of sex."

John laughed harder that he should have at that comment, but he couldn't help it. His body shook, propelling Sherlock up and down with each muscle movement. He was trying to stop but then Sherlock gave him that petulant look he liked to flash around when John was purposely making fun of him but that just set him off even more. He giggled and snorted uncontrollably until he was able to draw a deep breath and rocked up into Sherlock's abdomen.

"What should I do?" Sherlock asked as he realized what John was doing.

"Just stay right there," John panted. "Are you uncomfortable? We can move if you are. I want this to be good for you."

Sherlock rolled so they were on their sides and he placed a hand on John's chest just above his nipple. "Like this for now."

The promise of more sex with Sherlock after this was over short-circuited John's brain. With a strangled moan, he cupped his penis and began to thrust into his right hand as his left went into Sherlock's curls to stroke the back of his scalp and the nape of his neck. Sherlock rubbed his thumbs over John's nipples.

"You're fantastic," John gasped as he rocked into his hand. He buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder and picked up the pace of his thrusts. He was close when they started, and it didn't take long before Sherlock was kissing his head and he was coming.

Everything just kept getting better. They still bickered like an old married couple, but they were so in love. There were serial killers and lazy mornings spent in bed after a case. There were overbearing brothers and said brother's partner stepping in as a translator or a mediator for whatever their soul mate was saying. There was sex where they left each other bruised and hoarse, and there was sex where they rediscovered each other with reverence that ran so deep it frightened them sometimes. There were police officers that hated them and landladies that loved them beyond belief. There was a bucolic cottage with parents that was visited on holidays and there was another bucolic cottage in another part of the countryside with beehives, a lab, a garden, and a room for writing that came many years down the road but was dreamed about for long before.

To those on the outside, there was a man who saw color and an unfortunate man who would never see what his soul mate saw.

In their eyes, there was just Sherlock and John, and for John, not being able to see color was worth having Sherlock as his soul mate.

**A/N: Eighteen days, seven cities, and my first post-college apartment later, here is the final chapter. It took from the middle of last December until a few days before I began to publish to complete this story, and I just wanted to give a big thank you to those of you who have been so loving and supportive while I was posting this. For a while, I thought that this particular story would never see the light of day, and the strong positive feedback I've gotten from so many of you has been incredible. I'm so blessed to have beautiful people like you read what I write! I love you all very much! xoxoxo**

**Addendum: Thanks to everyone who pointed out the formatting faux pas that happened when this initially was posted. I dun goofed.**


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